Wearing Masks
by Yum2
Summary: Summary: What if the Social services in England were not as incompetent as JKR portrayed them? What would happen to poor Harry?  WARNING: This is an AU Fic, some characters may be dangerously OOC.
1. Chapter 1: The Ogre and The Horse

Hi, this is my First real HP fic.

I do not own Harry Potter and thus do not make money out of this.

Summary: What if the social services in England were not as incompetent as JKR portrayed them? What would happen to poor Harry?

WARNING: This is an AU Fiction, some characters may be dangerously OOC.

**Now on the story.**

****WM

**Wearing Masks****  
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WM

Chapter 1: The Ogre and The Horse

WM

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It was a sunny Saturday morning in the small town of Little Whinging, Surrey. Rays of light pierced through the off-white flower-pattern laced curtains of the kitchen of number Four Private Drive. A small blue bird was perched on the windowsill, tweeting happily at the feeling of the soft sunlight on its plumage.

A sudden noise coming from the kitchen startled it and it flew away in a flurry of feather.

Behind the frilly curtains, inside the medium-size kitchen, was a small boy by the name of Harry James Potter. Harry, as he liked to be called, had dark brown hair which could not be tamed by any brush, and green eyes which gleamed like the purest emerald under the light of the sun and were half hidden behind too big black rimmed glasses perched precariously at the tip of his nose. On the top of his toes, Harry could reach a proud 3 feet 4 inches just high enough to reach the counter top of the kitchen!

But if one asked young Harry what his favourite feature about himself was, he would not tell about his green eyes which the lady at the supermarket seemed to found fascinating; nor his shy little smile that his teacher seemed to love...

No, what Harry loved the most about himself was the small scar which was the shape of a perfect lightning bolt right at the top of his forehead, hidden behind a spike of hair. It was a source of constant stories for him; as each night, before going to sleep, he invented a new tale about how he got that scar which he had had for as long as he could remember.

Of course, being the young boy that he was, it always marked his heroism as he slayed the dragon that had captured a princess – he often wondered why the princess would not kill the dragon herself, she surely could have done it, no?

Today, Harry wore one of his best outfit: a gigantic grey shirt a little shabby on the edges that seemed to swallow his small frame, hanging loosely down to his knobby knees, maroon shorts which were hidden under his shirt and his missed-matched grey socks: one going up to his knee the other barely covering his ankle. Harry did not have the most extensive wardrobe: he had only three shirts, two pairs of trousers and one pair of shorts, one belt – which did not have enough holes to fit him – and two and a half pairs of miss-matched socks.

Currently, Harry was wobbling around the kitchen. In his arms was a beige ceramic bowl in which laid six eggs, a pack full of bacon, a can of kidney beans and six big juicy oranges. He was going to prepare breakfast for his uncle Vernon, this morning.

You see, Harry had no papa and no mama. All Harry had was an uncle and an aunt. He did not have brothers or sisters, he had a cousin. No, Harry was not a normal child: he was an orphan whose parents had died in a car wreck, and his aunt had had to take him in; he was nothing more than a burden to a good NORMAL family like hers.

But Harry was not sad about it. If having parents meant he would be like his cousin Dudley who was as fat as a pig and as wicked as the wicked witch of the East, he would rather have none!

He shuddered as he imagined what he would have been like if he had been his aunt's and uncle's child: He would be scrolling around like an over-weight seal demanding to be fed clapping his fatty arms together and emitting unintelligible high pitched sounds like his cousin so often did.

"Vernon!" came a shrilled cry.

Harry turned away from his task – putting the crumbled eggs exactly in the middle of Uncle Vernon's plate – and watched a distressed aunt Petunia enter the average size kitchen of the average house they lived in.

Aunt Petunia was an average woman in all things and was very proud of it:

Her hair was appropriately long for a woman – that was what he had heard her say once when she had dragged him to her hair-cutter appointment one day madam Figg had not been able to take him in – so she could twist it up into a tight bun. The colour was quite a dull brown shade with a few pecks of grey – result of the cheap colouring shampoo his aunt preferred.

Her face was thin and horse-like but none of her features would have made her stand out in the crowd and certainly not her brown eyes which she narrowed way too often trying to catch the next hot gossips of the neighbourhood.

She was of average height too which she enhanced by wearing only heel-less shoes as she hated high heels. Harry often wondered about those women on their high heels towering over people's head like some kind of giraffe: what was so interesting up in the clouds that would be worth the price of those shoes? Harry did not know. He had entertained, for a time, the thought of wearing heels himself when he got older: He wanted to walk gracefully like Miss Patton – his teacher this year. Unfortunately, it was highly inappropriate for a man to wear any kind of heels – or so Aunt Petunia said.

His aunt most outstanding feature was her slender figure: not too curvy, a bit on the thin size, a little under the average also, which, in all honesty, did not seem to bother her so much. At least, she could still wear her wedding dress which she never missed a chance to gloat about. Harry often wondered about that: Was it really that important to be able to fit in a who-knew-how-many-years-old, off-white, yellowish, smelly dress?

In all, Aunt Petunia valued normalcy and average above everything else in the world – apart Dudley and Uncle Vernon who were the only exception to normalcy she would grudgingly accept.

Thus Harry was the disturbance in her perfectly average little family: two boys of the same age in the same family was preposterous! Harry knew this and as the added piece, he could only be the faulty one. And Aunt Petunia made a point to remind him so.

"What is it?" groaned Uncle Vernon as he devoured his eggs not even glancing at him – which Harry was thankful for.

Each time his uncle took notice of him, it ended up badly for him.

Uncle Vernon had all the characteristic of an Ogre like the ones described in the fairy tales the Misses at the baby school read:

He was very very tall like a giant – surely _he_ did not need heels to see over clouds!

He had thin short dark blond hair completed with a thick dark blond moustache which he brushed carefully every morning, sculpting it down with a small pair of scissors – Harry knew because he had to sweep the floor of the bathroom every morning after his uncle went to work.

Uncle Vernon had a pink-tainted round face too which would go a horrible dark shade of red when he was angry at Harry – and he was often angry at Harry –, and beady blue eyes which narrowed so much that it disappeared under his thick brows when he looked angrily at Harry – because Uncle Vernon never looked at Harry like he looked at Dudley.

He had enormous hands also, to accompany his enormous sized body and Harry made sure to stay out of reach of those – unfortunately that never amount to much in the end.

What made Uncle Vernon more of a real ogre was the fact that when Uncle Vernon walked, he made the ground shake under his weight; and when he spoke, Harry would shiver in fear at the deep rock tone of his voice which seemed to echo down to Harry's very core.

And like every ogre in the fairy tales, Uncle Vernon had an obsession – or two: It was _neatness and normalcy_! Everything had to be in its place and be as Normal as it could possibly be.

And as Harry – as it was previously explained – was the anomaly in the Dursley's otherwise normal little life, it was his work to make sure everything was neat and normal for Uncle Vernon: a way to amend for being a burden – Harry was not really sure what those words meant but he sure heard Uncle Vernon ranting about that quite often when talking about him.

"It's Mrs Figg!" Madam Dursley explained hysterically, rubbing her sweaty hands on her flower patterned dress. "She had an accident!"

"Is the old hag dead yet?" Vernon asked with disinterest, spitting out bit of eggs all over the previously pristine kitchen.

Harry blinked, he did not really understand what Uncle Vernon meant by dead, but he knew Madame Figg!

She was a weird old lady of small stature always sporting something with dots on it and who Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia disliked greatly as they hated anything which was not normal: 'a woman with so many cats is definitely not normal.' Uncle Vernon claimed.

To be honest, Harry did not like her much either: her house smelt like cat poop and she kept giving him mouldy biscuits and staring at his forehead every time she thought he was not looking. Did she, like Harry, like his thunderbolt scar?

Nevertheless, he hoped she was not 'dead'. He was not sure what it meant exactly – something about organs of life stopping or that what was written in the dictionary he had been reading – but he knew it was not something nice: after all, Aunt Petunia kept snarling the word each time he uttered a question about his parents.

"She tripped over one of her blasted cat and broke her hip! She is in the hospital." Aunt Petunia snivelled pitifully. "They said she had to stay there for at least three months."

Three months?! That was an eternity!

Harry frowned.

Wait a second!

Was he not supposed to go to madame Figg sometime today while uncle Vernon, aunt Petunia and Dudley would be visiting uncle Vernon's sister at her dog competition?

Marjorie Dursley was a feminine version of uncle Vernon. The ogress was the size of a little whale, had nearly no neck, wavy hair the colour and texture of hay, blue beady eyes hidden under too thick brows, a voice which sounds like nails grating on a blackboard, her face was an unflattering shade of red the same red as her favourite drink: Cherry which she gulped down by the galleon; and, like her brother, she sported a moustache albeit it was less bushy than uncle Vernon's own.

She had a kennel and raised beasts with big maws full of razor sharp fangs that she called dog. Harry was pretty sure that those flat face slumbering things were Hell's hound like the one the witch sent after Snow White and not actual dogs – dogs were supposed to be nice and loyal and liked to be petted: everything that the beasts were not.

Her prize pet was a Victorian Bulldog – apparently there were different type of beasts but Harry could not tell the difference as, when their fangs sank into his flesh, they hurt just the same – by the name of Ripper, an enormous mastiff that made a point to rip anything that came near its impressive jaws.

Harry often wonder if there had not been a mistake in the little red riding hood and the wolf had been instead one of those atrocious Bulldog monster! Sure Ripper would have had no problem gulping down a grand mother! Though, Harry was not so sure about the tricking part as Ripper which, apparently, was a prime representative of his race – if one believed Marjorie Dursley –, was as stupid as it looked.

But what annoyed Harry the most about Marjorie Dursley, was not her stupid dog, nor her cherry tainted breath. No, It was that he had to called the woman "aunt" even though the fat woman was not related to him in any ways. He disliked her greatly as she never missed an occasion to order Ripper to attack him or belittle him and made his life generally more difficult – uncle Vernon was much worst to him when his sister was here to witness his Ogre's way. But Uncle Vernon insisted that he called her Aunt: 'You'll show some respect, little bugger!'

Anyway, this year was a grand year for Aunt Marge's annual dog competition, as she had finally been made part of the jury!

Uncle Vernon had raved about the importance of his sister and what a great achievement this all was, assuring Dudley he would do even better: It was in his genes, Uncle Vernon had exclaimed.

And he had clearly proclaimed that nothing would make him miss the event!

Harry remembered how Uncle Vernon's blue eyes narrowed menacingly at him slowly disappearing under his brows: _that_ had sent shivers down Harry's spine and Harry had scampered as noiselessly as possible away to safety.

Uncle Vernon suddenly raised from his chair, making it screeched on the off-white tiles of the kitchen breaking abruptly Harry's daydream, making him jump in fright and lose his grip on the pan which clanked loudly on the porcelain sink.

"You little bugger!" Uncle Vernon yelled turning around marching menacingly toward Harry.

Harry immediately curled into a tight ball on the white tiles mumbling apologies more to himself than to his Uncle, knowing that his uncle never cared for his apologizes.

The ogre's steps thundered in the kitchen and Harry shivered in fear. He cracked an eye opened seeing his uncle ugly brown dressing shoes just a few inches away from his face. He felt his uncle grip his arm tightly and he gritted his teeth trying to stop himself from crying out.

"Does it make you laugh hearing from someone's else misery?" Uncle Vernon snarled at him. "I bet you've something to do with it? Ugh?"

Harry did not even tried to deny anything. It was always like this with Uncle Vernon: everything that went wrong, every little abnormalities in Uncle Vernon's otherwise very normal life, were always Harry's fault – even though, most of the time, Harry could not be the culprit: what with him being locked up into the cupboard under the stairs.

"We'll see how much you'll laugh after a couple of days in your cupboard, You ungrateful brat!"

With that, uncle Vernon proceeded to drag Harry on the floor roughly pulling on his arm. Harry let out a small cry of distressed as his uncle single handily threw him in the little cupboard which was the only semblance of bedroom Harry had ever known.

Harry's head collided violently against the wooden panel of the cupboard making him dizzy. Harry blinked a few time trying to adapt to the darkness.

Harry sighed.

Of course, uncle Vernon would follow through with his threat, and Harry knew that the next few days would be very long, as he would not be allowed outside his room at all – grounded, that was the name of his punishment. As for food, he would have stale bread and water: Naughty boy's meal, aunt Petunia called it; Harry often wondered why his cousin Dudley never got those kind of meal, he sure was naughtier than Harry.

Harry blindly fetched for the switch to turn on the light, he could feel the white porcelain handle dangling a few centimetres away from him. He tried to grip it but his fist closed around thin air; he felt the cold porcelain handle brushing against his hand: so close!

He tried again, his hand closed around the oval form, he firmly drawn the long cord down so hard that he thought it would snap and with an echoing click the bulb above his head turned a weak yellow yew.

The cupboard was a small closet three feet depth, four feet wide under the staircase leading to the second floor, just one door away from the kitchen and Harry very own bedroom – he was quite happy he did not have to share it with Dudley as he would have taken all the space in there. Pushed against the wall was a trunk – which had belonged to uncle Vernon during the short time he had been in the army and which barely fit in the cupboard – and was now Harry very own bed. For a mattress, Harry had a thin cotton mattress that had been used for Dudley's cradle and Harry had made his own pillow out of rags. The rest of the room was filled by shelves full of all the things Aunt Petunia needed him to use for cleaning, precious dishes that could not fit anywhere else, even books – cooking books, sewing books, novels... – which his aunt regularly threw inside the cupboard away from his uncle's prying eyes; and other stuffs his aunt never used but still insisted on keeping, her treasure she said.

Behind the bleach, between the polishing cream and the anti-slugs, Harry had hidden the treasures he had saved from the seal.

Harry bit his lower lip down, looking around his shelves to see what he could do to occupy himself. He caught sight of the illustrated encyclopedia Dudley had received as a present at the beginning of the school year – Harry wondered why his aunt had bothered buying such thing to Dudley as the boy did not care about anything apart from food – Harry had been easily able to take the book without Dudley being the wiser. Harry sure could read that, he was nearly down with it at Y letter but the lack of light forced him to narrow his eyes to the point it hurt and Harry had taken on the habit to only read before going to bed.

Maybe he could play with some of the broken soldiers and the plastic cows and horses he had smuggled from Dudley's second bedroom. That was not a good idea either. Dudley would wake up soon and he would no doubt come gloat at Harry. If he even caught a glimpse of a toy, Harry would be in deep trouble.

No matter that most of the toys Harry had, he had fetched from the garbage bin, if any of the Dursley ever caught him with a toy, he would be dubbed a thief and a liar and uncle Vernon would ramp his little room for other toys, then Harry would have to watch as uncle Vernon threw each of the toys, books and drawings he would have found in the shredding machine – which had broken down more than once due to plastic toy getting stuck in-between the metal claws which continued to turn emitting that horrible sound – a bit like Aunt Marge's uneven breath after she got too many drinks – in a hopeless attempt to shred the plastic toys.

Harry pouted, it left him with only one thing to do: Make fairy tales of his own. It was the less dangerous and hurtful of all the solutions. He would, carefully, tell himself in the quietest voice he could, a fairy tale of his own.

He would take his last story back as he had not finished it yet:

It was about a glass-wearing king with a soft honey voice, a red-headed queen with startling green eyes and the most beautiful singing voice and a dark knight who instead of riding a horse – horse were overrated, really – was riding a huge motorcycle, but not any type of boring motorcycle like the one Harry had seen once in the parking lot of the supermarket.

No, this one was special!

No, it was not a magic bike! Magic did not exist, silly!

It was a super-bike – just like Superman! It could do a bunch of things: like illuminating the night like the sun or creating a big cloud of smoke one could hide into for surprise attack. But its most outstanding feature was that it could FLY!

And Harry imagined himself as the small prince mounting the motorcycle with the dark knight and touring around the castle.

He would laugh and giggle and he could heard the faint screams of the queen asking for the knight to come down with her son NOW.

Harry shook his head.

He could not get back to that part or he would never finish the story!

Harry did not particularly like to finish his stories, but he did not like when things were not moving forward either. He had already twisted and changed things so often in this story that he was quite confused about what happened exactly.

He would have to retell the story to himself once more, he thought with a smile.

Anyway, where was he?

Oh! Yes, he remembered now.

He was at the moment the courageous king had taken his sword up to fight the evil dark sorcerer, a tall lanky fellow wearing dark hooding robes which hide his features and who hissed evil words Harry could not understand.

The evil sorcerer did not use magic! No silly tricks for him! No, he used technology like all respectable villain.

Harry wanted to stay there and watch the battle unfold. But, as the little prince, he could not stay. He needed to be put in safety as he was the precious thing the evil sorcerer was after.

Apparently, the sorcerer feared that the prince would grow to be a threat to him and decided to kill him before that happened.

The queen took the little prince upstairs and all he could heard were the clank of the swords and the creek of stairs.

"Move aside." Harry hissed to himself trying to imitate the hissing voice of his sorcerer. "And you shall be spared."

"Never!" Harry whispered a bit too forcefully the queen's reply.

He let out a small shudder at the loud sound he had just made. He just hoped that no one had heard him.

He stayed silent for a few minutes more, forcing his breathing down.

Why was he breathing so loudly suddenly?

He tried to listen for any sound coming from outside his cupboard but he could not heard anything. Maybe the Dursley had gone to Aunt Marge's already.

But would they not have left him at his sitter?

Surely he was grounded, but they would not have left him alone in the house. Uncle Vernon always insisted that Harry should never be left alone in his house.

And Harry did not want to be left alone. Yes, he was fine in his cupboard by himself. But that did not mean he was fine with being alone in the house.

He knew he had been naughty: he should never have let the pan fall from his grip. He knew Uncle Vernon could not suffer loud sound, especially coming from Harry.

But, but this punishment was far above all the other he had received: being left all alone in the dark house. There would not be the noise of Dudley pounding down the stairs, not the noises of Aunt Petunia favourite East Enders (1) episode.

Nothing but silence.

He shuddered, suddenly feeling cold.

He wished there would be a fire in the chimney in front of which he could get warmer.

He shivered taking his small tattered blue baby blanket – H.J.P. was embroidered elegantly on it marking it as his only – and trying to cover himself with it in a desperate attempt to fight the cold. But he had long ago outgrown the blanket, and it only covered him from waist down. He curled himself in a tight ball so only his feet would stuck out and shivered again.

He really wished he was in front of one of those warm fire like on the telly, it seemed so comfortable.

Harry curled his toes as another shiver run through him. He closed his eyes and rock himself back and fro.

The crackle of the fire would lull him to sleep slowly.

Crick, crack.

The homey and soft warm would surround him slowly like a mother's arms.

Crick, crack.

He sniffed a bit trying to imagine the faint smell of smoke that would escape from the fire.

He sniffed again.

Was he dreaming?

He sniffed again and cough violently.

SMOKE!

It was not possible!

Why was there smoke?!

Harry began to panic as he saw the greyish coloured smoke began to fill his little room. He began pounding and pounding on the door, screaming on top of his lungs.

But the door would not open. He continued hitting the door for several minutes until he collapsed on his bed, exhausted.

He could heard in the distance noises: the hooter of the fire trucks and the clamour of a crowd, the little scream of fears and awe that were not his own, and then a blunt noise coming from the inside of the house like when Dudley slammed the front door opened. And voices... distorted low voices and loud breathing sounding like the bad guy who was the father of the good guy in that film Dudley had watched with his friend Piers not so long ago.

He did not know who those voices belonged to, maybe it was the dark knight coming to rescue him.

Harry tried to scream again, but he found he could not, each breath made him cough and his eyes burned with tears. He sniffed again coughing and coughing and coughing.

"Is there anyone?" One of the strange voice called.

Harry tried to answer, but each time he opened his mouth all that would come out was cough and cough.

"Is there anyone?" Another voice called.

Harry decided that if he could not talk the next best thing to make his present known was to make a racket. He needed out. He would deal with his punishment later. Now he needed out somewhere he could breath.

Pushing his back against the wall, aiming his feet at the door, he kicked the cupboard door as hard as he could, making all the shelves totter: old jam pots hurtling against each other, empty plastic bottle rolling off. Harry kicked and kicked the door, trying to avoid the falling objects.

"I think I heard something coming from the kitchen, Jon." One of the voice said.

Harry took aim of the door yet again and throw another kick. He kicked so hard that the big glass wine decanter Aunt Petunia was so proud of, came off the highest shelve where Aunt Petunia had put it, sailing down to the ground and fell in a loud crash sending little piece of glass all over Harry.

Harry winced, that would cost him a hell of a grounding maybe even the spanking his uncle Vernon kept promising him. Maybe he was better off staying in his cupboard after all. It would certainly alleviate Uncle Vernon's anger if Harry had not left his cupboard.

"Here, Paul!" A voice came just outside his cupboard's door.

Harry stayed curled up in the cupboard trying to decipher which would be less harmful: getting away from the smoke thus leaving the cupboard facing Uncle Vernon's wrath or staying in the cupboard and coughing.

At the thought, Harry let out a succession of small coughs.

"Don't worry, we'll get you out." The same voice as before came through the door.

And suddenly, goggle-covered eyes appeared across the small grill of the cupboard's door. The same grill Aunt Petunia used to make sure he was doing something 'devilish'.

"Put your blanket over your mouth and nose kid." The eyes said. "It'll help you with breathing."

Harry did as he was told. Did Uncle Vernon not order him to always obey adults in the house?

"Turn your head away from the door, we're going to break it down." The person ordered.

And Harry did so, his hand full of his blanket still pressed against his mouth and nose, he used his other hand to protect his head as best as he could, closing his eyes tightly.

He heard one loud blunt noise of axes meeting the thick wood of the door and a second, clearer as if the sound came from nearer, and a third one accompanied with a loud crack informing Harry that the door did come down.

Harry felt himself being scooped into someone's arms. He could feel the strong arms tightening their grip around him and he let out a whimper closing his eyes tighter.

"Shit look at that Paul!" A voice next to him exclaimed.

Harry wanted to open his eyes to see, but he was suddenly feeling exhausted. His head felt fuzzy and his chest was hurting. The warm humid feeling of his blanket against his nose was becoming annoying, he let his hand slip slowly, he had not the strength to keep maintain it there anyway, and coughed weakly into the man's chest, letting his head drooped on the soft leather of the man's jacket.

"We have to get him out of here, Jon." The man said. "He inhaled too much smoke..."

The man continued on, manoeuvring carefully around the house. Harry tried to listen, but the world was slowly fading into a black pool. Now, all he could hear was the sweet voice of the red headed queen saying that everything would be okay, he could nearly feel her hand threading in his hair – but that did not make sense, because the queen did not exist, did she?

_**WM: The Ogre and the Horse**_

Far away from the little house in Surrey, a quirky old man with long white hair and a long thin beard that reached a little over his waist and wearing red and gold bathrobe, was sitting at a tall solid oak desk sipping a well-deserved cup of lemon tea after an hour of tedious paper work fighting.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, as was the name of the man, was a well-respected man of high standing. In fact, Albus Dumbledore was a living legend in his own right. He, grand sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, had defeated single handily one of the most feared Dark Lord of modern time: Dark Lord Gellart Grindelwald; and was the only person the Dark Lord Voldemort had ever feared.

But his greatest achievement, in his humble opinion, was when he was chosen to be the headmaster of the most renown Wizarding school in the world: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

And that was where he currently was, on this fine Saturday morning, battling the evil known as paperwork.

The peace of the moment was broken when a shrill alarm rang loudly in his office. He slowly put the flower decorated cup back on its likewise-decorated saucer and sighed.

The alarm was for Privet Drive, the place were he had left, a little less than four years ago, the greatest hero of the wizarding world: Harry Potter. Given the nature of the alarm, the integrity of the structure of the house of four Privet Drive had been compromised.

Dumbledore took a quick look at the small painting behind his desk. He could see the enormous muggle fire-engine driving around the corner and stopping in front of the four Privet Drive and the smoke coming out of the house.

He let out a breath: It was just a small fire, nothing too alarming.

The Dursley, as was the name of the family of the young hero, were not there anyway – gone to Essex at Mr Dursley's sister's, Mrs Petunia Dursley had informed him. Thus young Harry was in no danger of being burnt alive.

A good thing too! Because Dumbledore did not fancy having to spell all those muggle – non-magical people – who were now gathering around the small house like vultures goggling and gossiping over the horror happening right next door.

Dumbledore sighed. He would have to send word to Petunia to stay a bit longer in Essex – if that was possible –, while the goblins spelled the house back to its original state.

That reminding him that he needed to find someone to stand in for Madam Figg. The poor woman had informed him that she would not be able to fulfil her duty, apparently the poor thing had tripped over one of her cat and broken her hip.

Maybe he could ask Madam Tonks, she was always willing to be of service. Plus, she was a familiar face in Privet drive as she often came to visit her squib cousin.

_**WM: the Ogre and the horse**_

Harry was not sure how long he had been sleeping but it could not have been that long because he felt like he had not been sleeping at all. All he wanted was for that annoying beeping sound to stop so he could go back to the Dark Knight kicking the evil sorcerer back to his evil tower and the handsome king and the beautiful queen walking with him hands in hands their laughs echoing in an happily-ever-after ending.

Harry took a deep breath and wrinkled his nose as the smell of bleach reach him.

Was it time for the Autumn Cleaning Spree already?

He was sure it was not due before next week-end.

Harry hummed softly, keeping his eyes closed – opening them would mean waking up and he was not all too ready for that yet – trying to remember of something that would have made Aunt Petunia change her schedule. Aunt Petunia never liked changing schedule, everything was organized months ahead! Even having to change her schedule to adapt to Aunt Marge's Dog Competition had made her screechy even though she was warned about it as early as March.

Harry groaned knowing that he had to get up soon because there was no way Aunt Petunia would do the work by herself. He wondered for a minute why Aunt Petunia had not woken him up when she had taken the bleach out of the cupboard.

Harry frowned as a flash of a broken door came to his mind.

He opened his eyes suddenly, half afraid not to find himself in the comfort of his cosy little cupboard.

There it was a huge wide white opened space, the odour of bleach became even more present if it was possible.

Harry nibbled his lips, panic seizing his heart.

He looked around the too big room painted in white and a sickening shade of pale green. There was nothing much in the room. Just the metal framed bed with puppy patterned bed spray and weird looking machines, one from which came the annoying beeping sound. There was also something alike a coat rack on which was dangling a bag full of a transparent liquid that dripped down a hose.

Harry pouted.

His cupboard was way better! Harry decided. At least, he had things to distract himself in there. But here, apart from watching the watery liquid drop down the hose.

Harry sighed. This was all too boring. He closed his eyes reflecting on his situation.

Suddenly he realised something: He was in a bed! A bed!

He moved around a bit on the mattress, it was... uncomfortable. There was like little pins poking his back and his all body seemed to get swallowed by the mattress. And the bed frame creaked loudly each time he made the tiniest move. All in all, a bed was barely more comfortable than his own cot, he could understand now why Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia did not bother with buying one for him.

Harry tried to raise out of the bed. Even if it was not comfortable, if Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon found him there instead of his cupboard, he would be in so much trouble!

He felt a sharp twinge coming from his left elbow, it was really painful and stopped him from moving. It felt as if something was attached to his arm. He discovered with horror there was the hose attached to his arm, pasted to his skin with a small bandage.

Where was the liquid going?

What was the liquid?

And if it was poison?

Harry scampered trying to tear the hose off his arm, not caring of the pain.

"You're awake?" Came a voice Harry did not recognize. "That's good."

Harry froze, looking up to see a person had entered the room and was now standing a few feet away from him: a petite woman with a round friendly rosy face, brown eyes hidden behind small glasses and blond hair knotted in a long braid. She wore a glaringly white uniform with a small bit of colour on the hems, she had one of those things the doctors in one of Aunt Petunia's favourite show wore around their neck: a Sss-te-tho-s-cooop-e.

"Are you a doctor?" Harry asked in an impulse.

As realization slowly downed to him that he had addressed an adult so abruptly he blushed. Way to make a bad first impression!

Aunt Petunia always said: 'The first impression is the most important because it will determine how people will treat you for the rest of your life.'

He always thought he must have made a very bad first impression on aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon when he first met them. Maybe he had been an ugly baby and had wake them up in the middle of the night – waking someone in the middle of the night was, in Harry's opinion, more than rude.

Speaking of aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon, where were they?

"I'm not a doctor. What is your name sweetie?" The kind looking young lady asked Harry.

"My name is Harry." He repeated like aunt Petunia had instructed him to do, never giving his full name. "But where are we? Where are aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon?"

"You're at the hospital." The kind looking woman informed. "Are you living with your uncle and aunt? Where are your parents?"

Harry blanched, he would surely get severely punished for this one like that time when he had forgotten the kettle on the burner: aunt Petunia had taken his hand and dragged it to the kitchen: 'I'll make sure you won't let it happen again.'

Then all Harry really remembered was waking up well-into the night, his right hand had felt like it had been still under the burning trickle; it had been a horrible shade of red sprinkled with whiter spots and throbbing with pain. He had blown and blown and blown on it in an effort to cool it down but the hot air of his breath had only made the matter worst.

He remembered falling asleep in the wee-hour of the morning, cradling his hand against his chest sobbing.

This time, it would be oh so much worst!

He had gotten out of his cupboard while he had been clearly grounded, broken aunt Petunia wine decanter and he had answered the lady even though neither uncle Vernon or aunt Petunia were present.

His mind was reeling, he could not avoid the punishment for getting out of the cupboard and breaking the precious decanter for sure; but he could, maybe, escape the one for talking to a stranger without aunt Petunia's or uncle Vernon's direct approbation. He simply just had to zip his mouth close and not say one more word.

Harry bit his lip: on the other hand, he really wanted to know where aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon were.

"You don't need to worry, we are going to take good care of you." The lady continued.

Care?

No-one cared for a stupid orphan like Harry, Dudley and uncle Vernon repeatedly told him so.

So why would that strange woman want to _take care_ of' him?

Maybe she was here to _take care_ of' his punishment.

That was it! Uncle Vernon must have sent her in for the punishment. She was surely there from the orphanage.

Harry knew exactly what an orphanage was. It was a place full of orphans, children who had no papa and no mama like him, who needed to be taught how to be Normal so they could have a family. Uncle Vernon often promised him to sent him there but aunt Petunia always talked him out of it. Honestly, he did not understand, if the orphanage could make him Normal, why would Aunt Petunia not send him there?

So if the lady was from the orphanage maybe she was there to decide his punishment.

"Are you from the orphanage? Do you know what's my punishment, Ma'am?" Harry asked trying to be as polite as possible.

No need to anger the lady, that could make matters worst.

"Punishment?" The lady asked in a gasp.

"Because I got out of my room even though I was grounded." Harry explained.

"Your room?" The lady's voice turned a strange rocky tone as if she had just chocked on something.

If you asked Harry, it did not fit her at all.

"My cupboard under the stairs." Harry explained frowning as if it was an evidence.

"They kept you in a cupboard under the stairs?" The woman exclaimed clearly appealed at the notion.

Harry moaned in distress.

He had made such a mess!

Aunt Petunia always told him he talked too much and that he should 'keep his nasty trap shut.' And now he had gone and babbled all those things to a stranger. This time, for sure, uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia would be very very angry with him.

_**WM: The Ogre and the Horse**_

Detective Helen Pritchard was a plump twenty one years old police officer freshly out of the academy. She had not been the top of her year but she had not be the last of her class either. That's how she had landed an affectation in her native Little Whinging. A very calm town were the crime rate was near to nil apart from the occasional brawls between drunks. The police was so small, not a dozen men were working there. She was the first and subsequently only woman working there and to make matter worst she outranked most of the men. Thus most of the men had respect for her and her work: even her partner detective Simon Thompson, a fit 5 feet twelve middle-age man who had been in the force for 20 years, did not seem to take her seriously.

So this time, when they had been called, Helen had jumped on the occasion to prove herself and told her colleague that she could handle talking to the _survivor_. That she would be able to question the young boy about the fire and his being locked in a cupboard. She had been sure that she could stomach whatever it was the obviously undernourished boy would send her way. After all, she had learned all about dealing with traumatized _victims_ at the academy. Simon had looked at her sceptically before muttering about how he preferred it that way anyway.

But that she had not expected. How could she have?

When the call from the fire-fighter department had come about an 'obviously not accidental fire' in a small house in Privet Drive – just a few blocks away from where she grew up – with one under-age victim, she had made up her theory.

For her, it had been quite clear: The _victim_ – surely some rebellious teenager – had lit the fire and when it got out of control, they got trapped. Nothing much to investigate, but a lot of paperwork on the way – and as the rookie, she would be the one doing it.

When inside the car, her partner and she had received a few more information: like the fact that the _victim_ was a young boy found locked inside a cupboard, and that it had not been possible to localize his guardians as of yet, her theory took another shape.

The boy had found some matches and tried to imitate his 'papa' while his pop was away, the fire had lit and the boy had not known how to deal with it and had hidden himself in the cupboard hoping to escape his punishment.

So, when her partner had asked her if she _really_ wanted to be the one interrogating the boy or if she would rather have him do it, she had told him off, explaining it would be a good opportunity to practice her skills.

After all, this case had had every characteristics of an easy case. And she had been quite certain that she would have the boy easily confided in her and it would be good training for her.

So, she had done her best to follow the instruction she had been given at the academy: Put the under-age _victim/_delinquent at ease.

She had asked for a nurse uniform, braided her long hair, put on her reading glasses and tried her friendliest smile.

She had entered the room confidently, throwing a stethoscope around her neck as the final touch to her disguise. But, at the view of the small boy obviously undernourished lying limply in a bed hooked to several machines beeping in a discordant chorus, she had recoiled in horror, taken aback by the pathetic image in front of her.

And they did not even know his name!

She had stayed there staring at the boy for a few minutes. She had had half a mind to go to her partner and asked if she could go visit the crime scene with him instead.

She had had her hand on the handle ready to escape the nightmarish vision of a four-years-old – maybe even five-years-old – boy lying on the too big bed. But the boy waking-up had squashed her plans.

She had purposely asked her partner to divide the share:

"Investigate the crime scene." She had told him. "I'll manage the boy. Tonight you will be home early and buy a big bouquet for Ann Mary."

Such arrogance! She now realized.

Listening to the boy – Harry was his name – babbled about punishment, and how Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would be _rightfully_ angry at him for being out of _his room, a cupboard,_ while he was _grounded_, had made her sick.

How could people like that exist?

And they lived a few blocks away from her own house too!

Helen closed the door softly behind her as to not wake the boy who had fallen asleep exhausted still muttering about punishment.

She took out her radio ignoring the glaring sign just in front of her informing her that the use of radio, walk-man and other electronic devices was strictly forbidden in the hospital.

"Simon?" Helen asked. "How is it on your side?

…

Yeah... not that good!

…

Harry did not say much.

…

It's the boy name.

…

I'm sure!

…

Not Dudley! That's an horrible name by the way.

...

Since I'm telling you he told me his name was Harry.

…

What no trace of any other child?! You've looked in every room?

…

I know you know your work but... You're sure?

…

Did you look in the cupboard?

…

Harry kept referring to it as his room."

So this was reality… there were monsters living next to her home! How could she not have known! She was a police officer, for Pete sake! That was her job to know where the monsters were hidden!

"The use of radio is strictly forbidden in this area please shut it down." came a strict voice.

Helen turned ready to raise hell to whoever had interrupted her.

There was standing not a millimetre away from her face, a tall woman in a black skirt and a professional looking dark grey vest glaring angrily at her through the lenses of her black rimmed glasses.

"I'm a police officer and this is an important call." Helen replied annoyed.

"And I'm a social worker who knows how much the youngsters need their rest here. That is far more important than any call. OUT with it!" The woman berated.

"Listen here! I'm the detective in charge of a case that would surely not be if your services were competent." Helen answered back annoyed at the rule loving woman.

A groan came out of the radio, and Helen realized what sort of big mistake she had just made. She would have to work with this person, at least on this case, and maybe on some other in the future. And she could not afford bad blood between her service and the Social services

"I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn." Helen apologized quickly, switching her radio off in an attempt of damage control.

"That you did! Know, officer, that this young mister is just one more name on the endless list of those the social services have to protect." The woman explained calmly. "It's our greatest regrets to see that we could not protect even only one of them from suffering at the hands of unfit guardians. But I assure you, officer, that if that young mister was left in the care of those persons, it would be only because they fit the several criteria of my services and no one could have predicted such events."

Helen frowned not convinced by the half-baked speech the woman had given her.

"The young mister's name is Harry." Helen replied, picked at the woman attitude.

"Harry James Potter living 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Guardian: Petunia Dursley née Evans – Maternal Aunt – and Vernon Dursley – Uncle –." The woman read from her files.

Helen noted quickly the name for her files wondering what kind of woman could do this to her own blood. Was blood not meant to be thicker than water? Should she not have raised him as her son?

"I'll speak with the young mister and then have arranged for a new living arrangement as soon as possible. I see here that he got a Godfather, maybe he would be willing to take the boy."

Helen nodded dumbly.

Little Harry would be taken care of. So now she just had to take care of his guardians.

"How should I proceed to have access to little Harry's medical file?" Helen asked.

"You should get this paperwork down." The woman gave a stack of papers. "And give them back in triple, one will go to our archives, one for the judge, one will be yours. It'll give you access to young mister Potter's medical files and his Social services files."

Helen nodded looking through the paperwork.

"Are you going to pursue them for endangerment of a minor under fifteen?" The woman asked.

"I was thinking of something a bit bigger." Helen answered half-listening;

"How so?" The woman probed.

"I was thinking of attempt of murder on a person aged under fifteen, I could certainly wrap the case." Helen explained absent-mindedly as she quickly read through the paper work.

She was going to be buried in paper-work hell for the next few weeks, it seemed.

_**WM: The Ogre and the Horse**_

Walburga Black was an old stern looking widow who had been living on her own since the death of the two loves of her life: her husband: Lord Orion Arcturus Black; and her beloved son Regulus Arcturus Black.

Her only company was a creature looking like a failed breeding experience between a goblin and a mouse or a rat which was commonly called house elf. No need to say, the thing was ugly and bore the equally ugly name of Kreacher.

She had a well established routine that she took good care of never disturbing. But that day, something had changed: She had received a letter.

She had not got any missive since the death of her precious Regulus in the service of that ridiculous lord who had taken both her sons away from her – this, as much as she agreed with his ideology, was unforgivable.

But that morning, she got a missive: The first one in six very long years. A muggle one at that.

"KREACHER." She screamed taking the disgusting thing by a corner with glove covered hand.

"Yes, Mistress." The vile creature appeared just next to her bowing pitifully as it should.

"Open this." She said letting the missive fall into Kreacher awaiting hands as if it was a soiled sock.

Normally, nothing Muggle would have been able to enter the house for the exception of official missives from the Muggle government. It was something that happened every twenty years or so: the head of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black would receive a missive from the Muggle government trying to steal their land away from them.

Walburga frowned; she could not quite remember when such a missive had arrived but she was sure it was not yet quite the time to receive another of the same kind.

"Unfold it, you incompetent fool. Or do you want your head aligned with those of your ancestors?"

She watched as Kreacher beamed happily at the idea and hit him repeatedly with her cane as hard as she could.

"Take a stool so I can read." She berated.

"Yes Mistress." Kreacher answered in his most sugar coated voice, snapping his fingers.

A small wooden three legged stool appeared, it was a little wobbly but it was enough for elf to be at his mistress' eyes.

_'HM Custody & Child Protection Services,_

_Guildford Surrey_

_Phone: 0845 413 2545_

_Date: 23 September 1985_

_Mr Sirius Orion Black_

_12 Grimmauld Place_

_London_

_Dear Mister S. Black,_

_It had come recently to our attention that you had a right in guardianship concerning Mr Harry James Potter, son of James Harold Potter and Lily Penelope Potter née Evans, born on the 31st of __July 1980 at __Godric's Hollow__, aged 5. His current guardians having been deemed unfit to keep him any longer, we humbly request if you, as the child's godfather, could take over the guardianship of mister Harry James Potter._

_If it is agreeable to you, please contact our services answering to this letter and a meeting should be schedule as soon as possible._

_Yours sincerely,_

_HER MAGESTY'S CUSTODY & CHILD PROTECTION SERVICES_

_Area Director'_

"What?" Walburga snatched angrily the letter away from the little creature.

She stayed still for a moment re-reading the letter, mumbling to herself.

"Harry Potter? Part of my family?" She screeched.

Her hands closed around the letter, she was more than ready to burn it to ashes. She glanced up at the tapestry representing the tree of the Black family, glaring at one of the small burnt spots she knew had once spelled the name of her eldest son. If she had had the power, she would have disowned the traitor. Her eyes fell on the name directly next to the burnt mark.

'Regulus A. Black' it read and in glaring black letters: 'Deceased.'

Walburga moaned in distressed in front of the tapestry. Her precious little boy, her pride, her joy, Her Regulus. If only she had...

She abruptly stopped her train of thought, that Harry was young, was he not?

She checked on the letter. Yes, he was very young...

She could... maybe she could raise him as her own...

She smiled a crooked smile.

Yes, the Fates had once again given the chance to the Black to raise above the other. With the marvellous power of the young Harry – because one who survived the killing curse could only be powerful in their own rights –, their standing would finally reach unprecedented heights.

His name would have to go: Harry... such a plebeian name was unfit for a Black.

But before even considering him a Black, she would have to get rid of his bad blood and for that she would have to visit the extensive Black library and the portraits of her illustrious ancestors.

First, she would have to secure the muggle loose ends. She had to adopt young Harry legally to tramp any claim from that thrice cursed muggle lover of Dumbledore.

"Kreacher!" She yelled totally ignoring that the creature was already grovelling at her feet.

"Yes, mistress." He answered all readily.

"Go answer this missive. Tomorrow we shall have a new member into the household, and soon a new name on our precious tapestry. Prepare the antechamber of the ritual room, too. The boy will stay there until we get rid of his bad blood. I would not want him contaminating my precious house." Walburga ordered.

**WM**

**To be Continued...**

**WM**

(1) For those who do not know EastEnders is an UK soap.

Please review. :)


	2. Chapter 2: The Hag and the Gargoyle

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter apart copies of the book, I do not make any money out of this fiction.

Happy Halloween every one!

Thanks to all the reviewers: **Sarah1281; Imperial Dragon; xXStrawberryxCyanideXx; EP; m0dToaD; uzumaki misaki; DarkRavie; mione the kneazle; Flightless Bird; outofcharacter.**

Up to the story now.

**...**

**Wearing Masks**

**...**

**Chapter 2: The Hag and the Gargoyle**

**...**

Walburga moved her wand slightly calling for that infernal purple bus. She only had taken it once, and had swore to herself not to do it again. But circumstances would not allow her the leisure of hiring a carriage: She did not want to leave any trace behind her and the annoyingly bright bus was her only wizard option.

Gods forbade she would take one of those Automobiles which muggles seemed to prefer.

The estrange bus stopped right in front of her in a screech of its rubber covered wheels. Walburga sighed longing for the Pegasus drawn carriage which the muggle inspired monstrosity had replaced. The door of the bus opened in a loud blunt noise and a old man extended a helpful hand to Walburga. Walburga inclined her head, as she delicately, in her most lady like manner, accepted the offered hand and stepped inside the muggle contraception followed by her glamor-covered elf -who looked like a miniature version of old muggle household butler.

She ignored the man asking her to pay her fee and if she would like some tea during the trip, leaving those mundane chores to her elf: it would see to it or find its head next to its ancestors.

The decor inside was garnished, Walburga found out: ten strong crystal Elizabethan hanging precariously on dark red painted ceiling, clinging and tangling; gilded red Velvet covered love-seats standing on old run down bright red carpet. In all a very Gryffindor theme.

She sneered down at the seat, sure there were some fleas there awaiting to take accommodation on her.

"Pillow!" She snarled in Kreacher's direction.

And the elf ran down next to her pulling out a Slytherin green pillow and sitting it on the velvet love-seat.

After making sure that none of her clothes came into contact with the seat, she proceeded to get out the file she had had made by some of her informants. She had always made sure she knew of her sons' every conquests as to make sure that if a bastard should be born, she could take the appropriate actions. It would not do if a Bastard came one day at her doorstep to claim the title of Lord Black.

The list was long, as the traitor was quite the playboy -while her Regulus was a Gentleman who would have, of course, waited until his marriage. It seemed to her an endless list of Half-blood and Mud-blood whose name she, for the most, could not recognize.

She cursed looking for an acceptable name in the list at the appropriate time frame. Maybe she would be lucky and find someone of use in there. She could not afford any loophole in there.

'Persephone Norington'. She underlined the name with her glove cover index finger.

At last, a name worth of interest! She was Eileen Prince's twice removed cousin. A pure-blood cow made to breed, and cow she was: letting everything with a bit of pedigree mount her.

It had been a huge scandal when the first born of the Noringhton had been found dead in her bath, throat slitted. No-one in their circle had been duped: her sister, Hebe, had made no secret of her aversion to her sister and had no doubt offed her in order to marry the heiress fiancé.

She checked the time frame just in case: Persephone had had relation with the traitor for two months in the beginning of 1980, obviously the traitor's habit to sleep around would serve some good at last!

"'Her Majesty Custody & Child Protection Services, Guildford Surrey." The old man announced as the bus violently came to a stop.

Walburga glared angrily at her papers which had been throw all around her, her hand clinching fiercely the gilded arm of the Loveseat. She would have to burn the glove as soon as she was out of that wretched thing!

"Quickly!" She berated Kreacher as she gracefully stepped out of the bus.

As soon as she was out of the bus she took of her gloves and burned them with a muttered hex.

"Gloves." She snarled waiting for Kreacher to hand her a new pair of gloves.

"Right away Mistress." The creature said in a sickeningly sweet voice.

Now to secure her family future.

She took a deep breath and stepped up to the door. She was quite flustered when the door opened itself on its own.

Muggles!

They were so lazy that they could not even open a door now like civilized people! They had to have their ridiculous barbaric method to open doors in their stay.

And what were those people doing waiting in front of those double metallic doors like sheep?

The doors opened with a loud clang and the flock of muggles entered a cramped space, a few seconds later the door closed.

She shook her head in dismay. Their pathetic attempt at trying to over-come their social condition as inferior to the wizard, just made her sick.

Fortunately, Child services were on the first floor, she would not have to go any further inside the infernal structure. The sooner she signed the paper, the sooner she got the boy.

"Mrs Black." She announced at what she guessed was a secretary.

How unbecoming! Women should take care of bettering their family place in the society while their husband took care of the more monetary aspect, not idly sitting behind a desk scantily clad like some working-girl on Knockturn Alley.

"Mrs Black, I've an appointment at 9.00" Walburga informed coldly.

"Please, wait here." The blond working-girl answered chewing on some sort of pink quid.

Walburga wrinkled her nose in disgust as she watched the blond idly taking into some useless bizarre device, one more invention of those lazy muggle.

Could they not be a little civilized and used normal means to communicate? Owls or the floo?

"It's the first door on your right, Mrs Black." The blond informed her with a smile.

Walburga walked calmly down the hall watching as Kreacher hurriedly opened the afford mentioned door for her.

"Mrs Black? Please to meet you. I'm Sara Carington. I'm in charge of mister Potter case." A strict looking woman greeted Walburga.

Walburga looked at the woman appraising: She looked like one of those modern woman who put their career above their personal life.

She sneered only muggle and mud-blood could have this set of mind! Not any self respecting pure-blood woman would think of putting their career first.

This reminded her that she would have to begin negotiation for the young one's marriage. She would not do the same mistake she had done with her boys. She had tried to be 'modern' and lenient as her husband had asked -true to be told there had been very few worthy brides available at that time- and what good had it done to the family?

At twenty, none of them had been married! One died heir-less, and the other was in prison most unlikely to have any children of his own.

This one would continue the line of Black! She would made sure of it. She would find him a fine bride to marry as soon as he was of age.

How old was he already?

Five?

A bit late to begin the negotiation, but with the leverage of the Black Lord-ship, she would be sure to find an appropriate bride.

"You will have to sign those documents and we will go see young mister Potter." The woman interrupted Walburga's planning. "He is still in Hospital as we speak..."

Walburga tuned off the woman as she carefully read the contract she had to sign. Nothing much of interest here, something about the right of children, promising to provide him with clothes, food and education. Nothing too demanding, Walburga guessed that there was no harm to sign the contract. After all that was no more than a vulgar piece of paper.

'Muggles.' She snarled to herself.

**...WM...**

Harry looked up from his book The life and Death of Bellatricus Black The second as the light switched off by themselves. It had been disconcerting at first, that no matter how hard he tried, Harry could not find the switch for the light. It seemed that the light would just switch themselves on and off when needed. Seeing they switched off, it surely meant that it was time for sleep.

Harry put his book aside and dragged the cover up to his shoulders. He really hope that he would see Grand Mother tomorrow. It had been quite a long time in there and he longed for some human contact.

It had been a month -or maybe more, Harry could not be sure really- since he had come to live with Grand Mother.

The strange woman had come to take him from the hospital and had explained him that he would never again see those 'disgusting muddles'. He was going to stay with her now. He had to call her Grand Mother Walburga or Grand Mother but was not authorized any variation on the theme like granny, or grand mom 'only worth for filthy muddles'.

The trip to his new house had been very quick, so quick that Harry barely remembered it: one moment he was in the elevator in the hospital, Grand Mother gripping his hand tightly and the next, he was in a dark lobby in front of what looked like the staircase of a Victorian style house.

The hall decoration was based on theme of dark green and black and had that creepy feel like he just entered the den of some evil witch.

The woman led him through the maze of the house, endless staircase, halls and doors, portrait whose eyes seemed to follow him. He wanted to asked about it... but he knew better.

Harry had barely registered when she stopped in front of a bookcase tapping with a wooden stick some of the volumes resting there. Suddenly like for Batman's Grand-father clock, the bookcase moved aside -Harry would have swore it jumped in its hurry- to reveal a small narrow staircase. Grand Mother gripped his wrist tightly, quickly going down the stairs. Harry tried to count the steps but he only knew how to count up to twenty and there were a lot more than twenty steps there.

Harry had nearly stumbled on his feet as he finally stepped down the last steps of the narrow cricking staircase. He was now in a high ceiling hall leading to two doors. One small barely noticeable oak door and one grand silver lined double-door with heavy looking silver snake-designed rings as handles.

Harry had not had the time to wonder about what kind of grand room would be hidden behind the double door as he was dragged across the Hall to the small door.

It was a plain door with a small button handle, nothing grand or extraordinary, it looked ridiculously plain next to the carefully carved double doors, out of place even.

She had opened the door and pushed him inside:

"This will be your room." She had croaked. "Until I get ride of your bad blood."

Harry had wondered what she meant by 'bad blood'.

Was his blood dirty, or something?

Was it why Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had not like him?

He could not understand how his blood could be bad? It was red like his cousin, was it not normal?

On the other hand, what he had understood was that he was once again grounded. But he was not adverse to the idea, he had been naughty and naughty boy needed to be punished, did they not?

Furthermore, the room had a bed and a desk and was full of books from the floor to the ceiling. Harry surely would not get bored.

"Kreacher will get you your meal three times a day. I expect you to eat everything in your plate, boy." Grand Mother had explained.

As she did, a pitiful looking dwarf-like creature appeared, it was no taller than the dwarf butler they had come in with, had big flap ears, a long pointy noise like Pinocchio when he lied, and big globular eyes.

"Mistress..." It said in the same voice he had heard the butler used.

He had blinked at the creature, maybe, Grand Mother was a hag and changed him into a moving gargoyle like in the Beauty and the Beast.

It surely had done something to displeased Grand Mother.

Harry had made a mental note to try to never garner a punishment from Grand Mother.

Harry had soon understood what Grand Mother wanted from him. She sent the gargoyle with loads and loads of food at each meal and Harry was pretty sure that the bizarre woman was like the hag in that Hassle and Gretel story. He had decided that if he was to end up in the oven, he would at least end up there with a full tummy! He did not have any Gretel to save him anyway.

He had read some book from the library, those he could actually reach. His favorite so far was The Guide of excellent wizard manners, he had made sure to memorize it from cover to cover.

He thought it was silly at first, because wizard did not exist! But it gave some sound advices like: not putting elbows on the table: that was the same kind of advice Aunt Petunia had given Dudley, so he guessed that there was no harm into reading it.

'A proper wizard do not show emotion in public, therefor a proper wizard shall not curse.' it read.

Harry had wondered what would be a curse word for wizard?

Maybe something involving Dragons? Or Merlin?

Harry had giggled picturing the man illustrating the cover cursing: 'Dragon dung! Where did I put that Merlin forsaken book?'

Harry let out a sigh at the remembrance of his penitence. Now he better got to sleep soon, before the gargoyle came or he would be up to ingest one of those fool tasting things the gargoyle said were called sleeping potion.

**...WM...**

It had taken an entire month of investigation. But she managed it.

Helen had begged and pleaded and promised and worked herself to exhaustion. She had to push her colleagues to help her and was now nicknamed 'the pug'.

But she did not care because she had made it.

The prosecutor had wanting to use the 'attempt of murder' charges as leverage to obtain a deal on lesser charges of 'gross negligence'. In all, he wanted an easy win to add to his record

He had argued that even with the Fire-inspector report classifying the fire as Arson, the lack of clear modus operandi would be too difficult for him to defend in court.

She had cried in outrage.

What kind of Justice would Harry have if his life was among so few in the eye of the court?

The Prosecutor -a young wolf in his thirties- had told her that if she was unsatisfied, she could always put a complain in the Family Proceeding Court.

And that she did!

The Family Proceeding Court had been quick to make its inquiries, seeing there was still a young party involved.

Not three weeks after she put in an official complain, the Dursley had been judged unfit of being any underage guardians and been stripped of their parental rights over their son Dudley who was sent to live with his Paternal grand parents in Bedford-shire. The Dursley had a visitation right of an hour a week under monitoring of the Social Services in a neutral setting. The visitation right would be revised in six months under the Social worker's recommendation.

Of course she had not been allowed inside the court during the trial, but the request she had made for Harry's file from the social services, gave her access to the judgment and the list of witnesses. And it had proven to be a well of information.

She had worked after hours for a week to compile all the information.

She had first dressed the portrait of a nice Jovial three persons strong family. The nice house filled with photos of the loving three members family. The four perfectly decorated bedrooms, one of which was filled with broken toys and savaged plushy.

Then she had added the disturbing bits about Harry.

The pictures of the cupboard under the stairs and the double bold on the broken door, the small dark places where were hidden small broken plastic toys, the drawing stick on the wooden wall hidden behind detergents, the well-used coot with an obvious dent in it proving that someone had slept on it for quite sometime.

Vernon's Colleagues astonishment at being told Vernon Dursley had a nephew who had lived at his house until recently:

"I knew he had a son. Who would not know! He is so proud of the little man! But he never talked about any nephew. Are you sure it's the same Vernon Dursley, we are talking about?"

The teacher Mrs Patton not so surprised reaction:

"Every now and again, he would show up with bruises or without his lunch box. Petunia always told us about how clumsy and forgetful the boy was. It always seemed quite strange to me, but she is such a good mother, you can't doubt that when you see her with her little Dudley."

She had then dig in their past, interrogating their friends:

"Vernon Dursley? He is one prompt to anger. Say a wrong word to him and you'll meet with his fists." The man's former boxing teacher had explained.

"Vernon? Petunia's parents never approve of him! Neither did her sister Lily. I think she married him out of spite to her parents. She had always been jealous of Lily for one reason or an other. And the fact that Lily married before her was a huge blow to her pride." Petunia's ex-roommate had reported.

Helen had been quite proud of herself, testing the files with her more seasoned colleagues: they had all been impressed and told her to go ahead. There was no way the prosecutor would not go into court for attempt of murder with a file like that.

'With that kind of things in the file, that stupid prosecutor will have his easy win!' Helen thought as she marched up the stairs of the Surrey Crown Court.

She would see the Dursley behind bars and justice render to little Harry. Even if she had to crawl in front of that idiotic prosecutor and do his job in his stead.

**...WM...**

Walburga gritted her teeth together.

Administration was, regardless of which world you were in, a nightmare.

What would you need to sign all those papers for?

And providing so many information about her holdings, her marital statue, it was like they were doubting her good name! Being interviewed like a vulgar criminal! They even had to interview the child.

Of course, Walburga would not have let them see the child. After all, had she not told the child that he would not be forced into contact with those horrible low life anymore?

She had to use potion and glamor on her house elf again to her great disgust and order it to use proper English.

She had to cane the dreadful thing a thousand times before it finally used the verb 'be' correctly as she made it review the answer she had prepared for that wretched interview.

After the interview with an overly sweet and condescending muggle who called himself Judge Bradley -what kind of Judge wore ridiculous fake hair and sweat like some kind of unrefined pig?

Walburga wondered if Muggles ever heard of the use of perspiring mitigation potion.

But what matter was that Walburga had been granted the sole guardianship over under-age Harry James Potter and the adoption was finalized.

Walburga had been informed that the file would be sealed until the child's eighteenth birthday, when, at the child's demand only, it could be consulted.

Nevertheless, she made sure that the adoption could not be trace back to her, signing the papers with a translation of her name in an old nearly-extinct German dialect. She had had half a mind to cast a few memory charms, but she had a feeling that the old coot of headmaster would get his ugly nose into the matter and the best course of action would be to not leave any magical traces.

Let The Great Chief Warlock look for his wonder boy in the muggle world! If he bothered to look at all.

Those formalities had taken three weeks. Three precious weeks, during which she had had barely the time to look for what she needed for the ritual.

It had been surprisingly easy to find a ritual with the help of a few of her ancestors: it was a Middle-Age old Black ritual -which had fallen out of used in the late seventeenth century-, it was just what she needed to make a proper wizard out of the child.

It had been a secret ritual kept in the family since its foundation. The Black had used it to get ride of unworthy squibs or integrate powerful but unfortunately dirty blooded wizards and witches in their family.

Some of the Black witches had been subjected to the ritual as to introduce new blood into the family without having to negotiate with other family.

The ritual was named after the family motto: 'Toujours Pur.' (1) and required only a few things really: a pint of the recipient family blood usually from the current head of the family -in a muggle case it would be the patriarch of the family-, one or preferably two pints of the unwanted blood preferably from different LIVING sources, a silver goblin made knife and a full moon.

Walburga had taken note that the next Full Moon would be on Monday the 28th, in two days. And she still missed a second sample. She had been able to track down the infuriating muggle aunt of the child and take her blood. But the god forsaken muggle of a cousin was nowhere to be found. She needed that cross reference to be sure to get ride of most of that tainting blood.

"Kreacher!" She yelled for her house-elf.

The monstrosity appeared in a soft pop.

"Yes mistress." It uttered in its usual sickeningly sweet adoring voice.

"Did you find that pig yet?" Walburga asked sizing her cane ready to strike at the inevitable failure of her elf.

"Kreacher did mistress, that he did! Kreacher find the filth. Kreacher go to take the filth blood tonight." Kreacher answered beaming.

"What are you standing here for then?" Walburga berated striking the pitiful beast with her cane. "Go already!"

"Yes Mistress." Kreacher answered before disappearing in a soft pop.

Walburga looked back down on the name book opened in front of her. That would definitely do:

_Antarès Aymeric Black_

The name sounded of majesty.

She could not wait to embroider the name on the tapestry.

Yes, her Antarès would bring glory back to the House of Black.

**...WM...**

Petunia could not honestly said she had never dreamed of fame and seeing her names on the headlines. But she had hoped it would have been over her exceptionally beautiful garden or her over-achieving son being the youngest ever PhD in Nuclear Physic.

But here it was not the case! Here she was not dubbed as the most wonderful loving normal mother in the world like she had dreamed.

No, those headlines had nothing flattering about them. Especially not the one of her favorite newspaper: The Daily Mail, who slandered her good name the worst.

She could barely watch the news barricaded in the small apartment her husband and she were renting outside of little Whinging to avoid the unwanted attention of those vultures.

When they had come back from Essex, a week after the fire, they had found the house perfectly restored thanks to those freaks.

At least, she had though, the little annoyance had been good for something. Not that it would have saved him from his rightful punishment.

Setting the house on fire, really.

The little bugger was a criminal in the making and severe punishment was in order in hope to curve that abnormality out of him.

It had been decided that they would get the Freak out of the hospital -whichever hospital he might be in- after the week-end.

"Let's enjoy a Freak-less house a bit more." Vernon had declared, and Petunia could not have agreed more with her husband.

They had not been back for an hour that a young woman had rung the door bell. The low tune echoing in the house had had Petunia jumped on her feet in fright.

The young woman at the door had been Helen Pritchard, Inspector at the Surrey Police Department -Petunia had wondered how such a charming looking woman could do such a manly work as policeman. Helen had been accompanied by a small nice-looking woman dressed in a professional looking black tailor like the one she had dreamed to wear when she was studying to become a secretary. That was before marrying Vernon, Vernon had been clear on that subject: 'No wife of mine will work.'

"Social Services." The woman had informed pushing her way inside. "I'm here to take Dudley Dursley with me."

Petunia had cried in outrage and tried to stop the woman from getting upstairs only to be manhandled by two uniforms.

Petunia had screamed and cried. They could not take her son away from her. They simply could not.

But no matter how much she had cried, with Vernon gone to the pub for his usual Sunday Dart game, there would be no-one to comfort her.

Her Duddinkin had been woken up and taken away and all she had been able to do was watched as Dudley was stuffed in a car, the social worker sitting herself next to him. And she had desperately cried for her son as she had watched the car speeding away from Private drive.

The inspector had remained, sneering at Petunia's perfect interior. Petunia had been sure it was all Jealousy on her part.

"There will be an hearing over the guardianship of your son on the 8th. Don't think you'll get away with what you've done." The woman had snarled at Petunia, looking down at her like she was some kind of worm.

And Petunia had been left crying in anguish for anyone to see from her opened front door.

The next few weeks had been a blur, between the callous interview of their friends and of Vernon's colleagues and subalterns, even of poor distressed Marge, and finding a barrister.

For their barrister, they choose a specialist from the well known B&G corporation who had certified that they would have no difficulty getting their son back.

"It's a formality." He had promised. "From what you're telling me, there is no way any judge would take your son away."

It was just before the audience, that the first Article came out: A little editorial on the last page of the local newspaper.

Petunia had been abashed at reading how the editor thought that she and her husband should have not been authorized to reproduce.

She had immediately taken her most beautiful paper to write an answer to that vile creature.

And she really should not have. The next day her answer was printing in part only on the front page with a title in bold letter: **Arson Mom on trial for guardianship over her son** **(read more page 2)**

The barrister had scolded her and had her promised to not speak to, write to, think of any journalist at all and had strongly advice her and Vernon to avoid reading papers.

When on the second day of the hearing, the subject of their nephew was brought up, their Barrister had informed them that he could not represent them anymore:

"I've an other case that demands my whole attention." He had said coldly as he put his papers back into his suitcase. "I will not be able to be at the hearing tomorrow. I'll, of course, send one of my highly commendable colleague."

Vernon had spat in outrage but nothing had changed. The enormous sum of money they had pay for the best of the barrister in the best firm earned them a freshly out-of-school barrister not even out of his nappies and who barely knew the case.

It took three excruciating days to come through all the witnesses, the barrister assigned to them as replacement, had been totally useless -as she had guessed. He did not fight much for them, always searching for the names in his notes and butchering their cherub Dudley name every time he tried to pronounce it.

The judges had made their decision on the 15th and Petunia had watched not really understanding what was happening as her custody over her baby was revoked and she was informed she could only see him one hour a week on week-ends while he would live at Vernon's parents -those horrible persons who had all but disapproved of their union.

Their barrister had looked at them:

"Bah, it's not like I could win with a case like that."

And had proceeded to gather his belonging.

At those words, Petunia had howled in distressed before breaking down, crying for her son.

The next day, Petunia and Vernon had been informed that the visit would be delayed for a week maybe two, the time for Dudley to get use to his new environment and for the social services to organize a place for them to see him.

A week had passed since then and Petunia had barely been able to close her eyes worried as she was about her Dudley-kins.

Maybe she should contact that freak Headmaster for help.

She had argued with Vernon over it as he was dead set against the idea. She knew she would not be able to convince him to contact the man, but she truly believed that it was their only chance. The man had to do something, after all she did take abnormal sister's spawn in.

Petunia took a piece of paper and began to write, leaving out the most useless details.

**...WM...**

Dumbledore was really annoyed. He was waiting for Petunia's monthly report on Harry for days now. He had not been able to replace dear Mrs Figg for snippet of news and photos of the boy he considered as his own grand-son.

Andromeda Tonks had informed him that she would not be able to took over Mrs Figg role as her neighbor daughter had caught a bad cold -something called pneumonia if Dumbledore remembered right- and had asked Andromeda to keep an eye on their dog.

Dumbledore had thus settled for the monthly letter from Petunia. Every 15th of each month, Petunia would send him a exhaustive letter -two or three pages long- about Harry's little life.

In last month letter, Petunia had informed Dumbledore that young Harry had had his first days of class for his last year in kindergarten, he had already been taught how to count up to twenty! He also had taken a liking to gardening and would often been found in the garden watching flowers and playing with the dirt. Apparently, they were growing Beans in little plastic pots in their classroom.

Dumbledore had been most pleased by the news, he had been a little bit alarmed when Mrs Figg had worried of the numbers of hours young Harry had passed outside in the garden. But Petunia's letter had alleviate his fears.

He had stacked the letter with his favorites, the one he would read and re-read every-time he missed young Harry. It had became his second favorite just after the one from August in which Petunia had informed that, for his birthday, Harry had learned how to swim with the help of his loving cousin Dudley.

Of course, the news of Harry taking swimming lesson had been old news to the old man, thanks to Mrs Figg.

Dumbledore had come to look forward to those letters, like he look forward to suck on his favorite sour Lemon treat. And the fact that this month letter was late, did not sit well with him.

He would have loved to be able to go down to Private Drive himself and check on Harry's good health but Dumbledore was a busy man -contrarily to the imagine he tried so hard to show to his peers.

Between his duty as a headmaster of the most renowned magical school in the United Kingdom -just for this month, he had received a dozen of complains about the new DADA teacher mostly from Slytherin backed up by his potion master and adding to that Minerva pressing the matter about the organization and the decoration for Halloween Ball-, dealing with the ever incompetent Minister of Magic who apparently could not fulfill his duty without asking for Dumbledore's council at every step -sometimes Dumbledore wished that the voting Wizards and Witches would elect someone with, at least, half a brain of their own-, and his duties as Chief Warlock of the Winzengamot -a petition of seventy strong lesser pure-blood family demanded that the wealth, properties and titles of known Death-Eaters were redistributed to more deserving families aka them-, Dumbledore had barely the time to even have a small cup of tea with biscuits.

But if a letter did not come by tomorrow morning, he swore to himself, to hell his duties, he would marched down Private Drive and see for himself!

He opened the special drawer that he had charmed to get the letters from Petunia. He had taken what muggle called a 'rest post' in London, charmed the little box the muggle man had told him would be his to send the letters directly into an equally charmed drawer in his desk and given the address to Petunia as she had adamantly refused to use owls.

He had found it quite interesting how people would send letter to arrive in little boxes or passed through slim rectangular hole in doors. What a bizarre way to exchange missive!

And how did they do with packages? They passed them through the hole too? But muggle did not have reduction charms.

Dumbledore watched longingly at the stubbornly empty drawer.

Still no letter.

He heaved a sigh and went down to choosing the Halloween Ball group. He had had the prefect and head boys and girls to make a list of three groups each they would want to hear at the Halloween ball and like each year he would contact the most popular among the choices to play at the ball.

This year it seems that it would be the _Blaring Hillocks._ He wondered what kind of music that group played.

He once again opened his Harry drawer, not really thinking there would be a letter but trying just in case.

And there it was! A plain white envelop, with the small neat handwriting of Petunia Dursley looping his name A. Dumbledore.

He let out a little cry of joy and immediately tore the letter opened -a bit disappointed to find only one sheet of paper there-:

_'Petunia Evans Dursley,_

_Little Whinging, _

_Surrey,_

_Sunday the 27th of October 1985_

_Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,'_

So far it was the same as every letter Petunia had ever send him, then, he knew, it would go on asking him if he had had a pleasant month and going on and how so far everything was going marvelously well for Harry in his loving Muggle family.

Truth to be told, Dumbledore had had his own doubt about the Dursley Family even before Minerva brought the subject up that night. But now he knew, he was right to trust the family. There was no way the Dursley would have not got attached to cute little Harry. And Dumbledore theory had been proven right so far:

'Blood is thicker than Water.'

Dumbledore was sorely tempted to skip the niceties that always opened Petunia's letter and directly go to the Harry part. But, something felt wrong about the _'Dear headmaster Dumbledore'_: it was Petunia's hand writing for sure, but there was something of a rush in it not like the well planned letters he had received before.

He quickly read through the rest of the letter, a short letter nothing like what he had expected. It did not contain a word about Harry's well-being, but something of urgency. Something about needing his help.

_'After that unfortunate event in the end of September, my Husband and I had found ourselves the victims of something akin to a Vendetta conducted by some power-hungry corrupted police officer. They swore to destroy our family and decided to slain our proper name in the mud._

_It's a plea for help that I'm now sending to you. I would not have asked anything from you, Headmaster, if the situation we found ourselves in was not desperate._

_As a matter of fact, that culprit of a police-officer already cost us the custody of our dear son Dudley. And my broken heart cannot suffer to be separated from my child any longer._

_I had in good word that you have the ears of the powerful both in your world and in mine. I know I may sound arrogant to your ears, but this is the desperate plea of a mother who loves her son._

_I humbly request for your help._

_We are currently staying at a small hotel in the outskirt of Little Whinging called the three pheasants, in the room number 4._

_In hope to hear from you soon,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_P.E.D.'_

Dumbledore paled as he read and re-read the letter.

What worried him the most about this letter, was that there were no news of Harry.

If Dudley had been taken away, did it mean that Harry was gone too?

But there were no reason for such a thing to happened to a loving family like the Dursley. Especially over an accidental fire in an empty house. But then again this was the Muggle world where one could be fined for something as ridiculous as blowing their nose too loudly, he had heard.

Dumbledore shook his head there was no time to waste in conjecture, he had to find Harry and he had to find him now.

He quickly through some powder in the chimney, immediately the flames stilled and turned an eery shade of green:

"Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration classroom 3, Hogward." He shouted before putting his head inside the fire.

"Minerva," He called, catching the attention of the entire first year Ravenclaw class.

He waited until the strict looking lady came, kneeling in front of the hearth hiding him from the pupils' view.

"I have received very distressing news from Surrey." He whispered softly.

He could see in his ex-pupil's eyes that she wanted to know about young Harry. But he also knew she would not utter any of her questions until a such a time Dumbledore could actually answer them.

"I'll be away for the next few days, I'm entrusted the school to you." Dumbledore explained.

And with that he shut the connection down.

Dumbledore hurriedly walked into his room adjacent to his office. He quickly threw on his most muggle-ish clothes: a Pansy purple shirt, a electric blue sleeveless jacket, a Bourbon red trousers complement with Pansy purple high socks and Bourbon red shoes. He quickly spelled the colors two shades darker and put an illusion over his hair and beard to make them appeared shorter and hide them under a Dark purple trilby.

No need to draw attention, what if all this was a plot from rogue Death-eaters?

It was highly unlikely, Dumbledore reasoned to himself. No Death Eater would go look into the muggle world for Harry!

Even less since they did not know about Lilly sacrifice -Dumbledore had made sure of that– and thus about the possibility to raise blood wards to protect Harry. There were no apparent reason for Harry to be raised in the muggle world and Dumbledore had made sure that the most incredible rumors about the boy's where-about were regularly on the front page of the tabloids gossiping witches love to read just to further the confusion.

But for the fire, he had asked for the Goblins to rebuilt the inside of the house to its exact previous state, maybe that had been his mistake, maybe that was what led the Death-Eaters to Harry.

But there was Severus! Severus had not reported any suspect activities from his old crowd. And if Severus was anything it was meticulous! That could not be death-eater foul play.

No matter what Dumbledore told himself, he could not stop the feeling of dread squeezing his heart to spread in a shudder of fear.

He quickly took a handful of powder from the little bottomless pot on his desk and threw it in the fire watching the flame stilled and then grew a flamboyant green color.

"Mrs Figg, Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging." Dumbledore cried before his frame was engulfed by twirling flames.

**End of the Chapter**

1 Toujours Pur: Always Pure.

Author Note: Of course, I've taken some liberties about the entire process of Walburga adopting Harry. I won't bother trying to describe each steps of it.

**Read and review, please!**


	3. Chapter 3: Better than the Rest

Hi!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter thus I'm not making money out of this.

Thanks to **itachisgurl93** for beta-ing that chapter for me so quickly. :)

Thanks to the reviewers: **DarkRavie****; ****sleepingdragon504; sweetmiracle; Flightless Bird; Womgi; NatsumeShin; itachisgurl93  


* * *

**

**Wearing Masks**

**Chapter 3: ****Better Than the Rest**

* * *

Dumbledore heaved a sigh.

The summer had been quite a busy one. And now, at a week into August, he still had not organized the welcoming feast –which he usually organized before the end of the previous year– nor had he checked the list of first year entering Hogwarts this year.

Two years ago, the possession of his defense teacher had Dumbledore worried about a possible return of Tom and he went to look for answers at his old colleague, Horace Slughorn –Tom had been a part of his elitist club and Dumbledore was sure that if anyone alive had an inkling of what young Tom might have done if would be Horace.

Horace had not been easy to find, but the information he had, were of the utmost importance. Apparently, young Tom had asked his professor about immortality and the ever so talkative slug had slipped about Horcruxes.

Dumbledore's heart had skipped a beat at this.

Horcruxes!

The vilest, darkest magic, a wizard could perform. Only a lunatic would try such a thing: tearing one's soul in pieces to be put in an object –as it was highly dangerous to put it in a living being– at the price of another human life.

The minute Dumbledore had heard this word, he called on his old friend: Alastor Mad-eye Moody to discreetly search for some key items, most certainly having a link to the Founders of Hogwarts as young Tom had been obsessed with them.

So far, They had found four Horcruxes which they had destroyed with fiendfyre: the Gaunt ring –that Dumbledore had fetched himself from the Gaunts' Shack–, Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem –which was found in Hogwarts itself thanks to its ever-so-faithful house-elves–, Gryffindor's Armory pendant –which had been buried with James Potter in Godric's hollow under the misconception that it was his–, Tom Marvolo Riddle Diary –which had somehow made its way in the hands of an innocent Muggle-born Gryffindor who had immediately taken it to him after the diary had answered her.

Unfortunately, Moody had traced Helga Hufflepuffs cup back to Bellatrix Lestrange's vault which could only be accessed by her or her heir and the Slytherin locket they had localized, had been a hoax. Apparently, Regulus Black had managed to snatch it away before he died.

Dumbledore had looked for a way to access Bellatrix Lestrange's vault, but it seemed impossible, even if Lady Lestranges were to died, the Lord Black would inherit it as it was her dowry vault.

Dumbledore had long suffered from the betrayal of the Black heir. He had had so much hope, hope that Sirius would be an inspiring hero for the future generation of Pure-blooded children trying to find a way out of their family bigotry.

He had believed that, for Sirius, James was as much a brother, if not more, than Sirius own blood brother had been. But he would betray them so easily.

Dumbledore let a tear slide down his aged face at the though.

He remembered his last conversation with the strangely subdued man: 'I never betrayed them.' He had whispered, his sad silver eyes looked straight into Dumbledore's clear blue.

And what if? What if what Sirius told him that night had been the truth? What if he had never betrayed the Potter? Could he be suffering through Azkaban for nothing?

Dumbledore sat at his desk, taking out his quill, he had some letter to send. Some trials to organize. If everything went well, by the end of August, Sirius would be tried and Dumbledore doubt alleviated.

* * *

It had been seven years since he got to Grand Mother Walburga, and he could say he had gotten quite easily used to the lifestyle of wizard.

Of course, it had taken a while for him to get used to certain things like the fact that magic existed or that the walking/speaking Gargoyle was not a human cursed into looking like an ugly monster but in fact a house elf called Kreacher –but he still preferred to call him Gargoyle.

Smaller things had not be a problem like his new name –it had been quite like getting used to be called Harry instead of freak or boy when he entered kindergarten–, the lights getting on and off by themselves and the speaking moving portraits –that was not so far from the telly.

At first, Harry had been quite put out by the change of name: he liked being called Harry. But after making some research he discovered the meaning of his name: Antarès was the biggest and brightest star of the Scorpio constellation and was called so because its red color rivaled the one of Mars, the Roman named of Arès the Greek God of War. He also learned that his second name Aymeric was a meridional form of Harry. Harry had smiled at that, he could still call himself Harry after all!

In the first four years with Walburga, Harry had learned quite a few things about being a proper wizard –because Harry was a wizard, could you believe it?

He had learned proper English written and spoken, Latin written and spoken too, Ancient Greek written –because Harry wanted to read more about the Greek Gods and Goddesses and Grand Mother Walburga insisted that translation spells could not be trusted–, French Written and Spoken –as it was the family tradition. He also had lesson on table manner –Grand Mother Walburga would often scold him: 'Don't quid like a horse!'–, Rules of Good Wizard Society –he learned how to dance without stepping on Gargoyle's feet and to Kiss ladies hands and bow to young maidens–, Fending –which was the sport of gentleman if one believed Grand Mother Walburga– and Astronomy.

Three years ago, he had begun to study Potion –he was not very good at Potion, why would freshly cut nettles reacted so badly to bat wings while, if it had been macerated for at least a week, the two could worked together?–, Herbology, Transfiguration –why would he want to change a needles into a match stick when there was the incendio?–, Charms –he would love to be able to make objects float with a Levitating charm–, Dark Creatures –did you know that there was more than one race of vampire and that one had two set of teeth, one of which would appear when they needed to 'eat'– and Dark Art –Grand Mother Walburga loved to demonstrate them on Gargoyle and Harry was not sure if he liked them even though some of them were terrific!

He still did not have a wand and could not practice any of the spells, hexes, curses, jinx he had learned about.

But today, Grand Mother Walburga had promised they would go buy one. And that made Harry really happy, because it would be the first time he would set a foot outside the house –the backyard did not count because one could not really set a foot in it with all the wild vegetation there were there: apparently Gargoyle did not like gardening and Grand Mother Walburga would not come to the backyard so the little elf did not bother.

Harry shook his head, now was not the time to think about that. He needed to get ready or Grand Mother Walburga might change her mind. It would not be the first time. After all, it was the sixteenth time Grand Mother Walburga had promised they would go for his wand. But each time, the trip would be cancel over the weather which was not good enough, the clothes Harry had put on which were inappropriate or a failure to complete his 'homework' on time.

So this time, Harry had made sure nothing could go wrong. He had carefully chosen his clothes with the help of The Guide of Wizard Clothes for All Occasion choosing the 'shopping trip in mid-summer for young male heir of pure-blood' and he had made sure he had everything right done to the underwear. He had completed all his homework and had even done an extra three feet long essay on the use of a Silver mixing spoon over the use of a Bronze or Gold spoon in the Draught of Living Death.

And in the middle of August, there were little chance for the weather to turn bad.

Harry smiled to himself as he climbed down the stairs to the drawing room where Grand Mother Walburga was surely dozing off in front of a cup of tea.

* * *

Sirius' dog ears twitched at the sound of boots clicking on the uneven stone floor of the Dark High-security level of the wizard prison.

'A guard?' He quickly wondered how long it had been since he had seen a living being down there.

There were few guards in the prison but none of them were choir boys. Sirius vaguely remembered that he had once though that those who chose to become guardians in Azkaban, were sissies that had not been able to complete the Auror program.

But he had been all wrong on that –and on many other things too he had come to realize. They were no sissies, they were powerful seasoned wizards capable of casting a corporal Patronus with ease and efficient in the art of interrogation and torture.

Sirius shuddered as he remembered the first few months in the jail and the interrogation sessions he had been forced to partake alone or with his 'cellmates'.

Surviving Azkaban was no easy matter, most prisoners committed suicide in the first two years. The guards had made it their duty to inform other prisoners of each suicide detailing the event from the slow asphyxia of Fionnlagh Seaver who had been one of the most respected and quite powerful Death-Eater of He-who-must-not-be-named, over a hasty hanging to Linwood Iver digging his eyes out before biting down his own tongue drowning in his blood.

His ears perked again as the clicking sound was getting nearer and nearer

He quickly changed back to his human form, laying on his coot faking sleep. Unfortunately faking sleep would not make the dementors go away –but it could make one guardian slip maybe?– and as soon as the last of Padfoot black hairs disappeared, one of the creature hurried to his cell to fest on his distress.

"Expecto Patronus." Sirius heard the guard drawled casually. "Stupid creature."

Sirius whimpered slightly at the light produced by the Patronus.

"Sirius Black. Up! You don't fool me faking sleep. Do you know how many of your colleague already tried that trick?" The guard informed.

Sirius kept his eyes closed just in case the guard was bluffing.

"Anyway, today is your lucky day Black." The guard explained opening the heavy door of Sirius's cell. "You get a free ticket for a few weeks in one of the 'luxurious' Ministry holding cell."

"What?" Sirius blurted out forgetting completely about faking sleep.

"You get yourself a trial, Lord Black." The man explained spitting out the title and name of the prisoner.

Sirius blinked owlishly.

A trial? What for? And why now?

"But don't worry you'll be back here more quickly than you can say quiddich. Maybe, this time, our friends will have their meal." The man laughed as he dragged the undernourished Sirius out of his cell.

* * *

Petunia jumped in fright as the heavy doors of the prison closed behind her. After seven years in this Hell, she was finally free.

She had been condemned to ten years in jail for accessory child abuse and child abandon while her husband had taken fifteen years for attempted murder on the person of a child under the age of eleven, five had been added for Arson, another five for child abuse and he garnered another three years after a brawl with one of the guardian at his prison.

Contrarily to her husband, Petunia had understood quickly that good behavior would be more helpful.

She had had a good beating when she had arrived in HM Prison Holloway (1). The women had heard of her from the guardians and they had prepared a little welcoming comity for her: she had lost two of her teeth that day, broken her left arm and had to stay into the infirmary for three weeks over a broken rib which had punctured her spleen.

After that Petunia had made herself scarce. Never complaining, she had suffered every insults, every kicks in silence and crawled like a lowly bitch trying her best not to garner any attention.

Her good behavior had gained her access to the library where she tried to study for the secretary diploma but her dream to be a secretary was definitely shattered: who would take an ex-convicted like her as a secretary?

After she realized that, she decided to try herself to writing. She had decided to write letters snippets like The Marquise De Sévigné. She wrote long letters to her Dudley that she would not, could not send as she had been forbidden by court order to contact her son. She wrote about how much she loved him, how much she regretted not to be there for him and how she would like to take it all back so they could be together.

The librarian had loved them so much that she had sent them to a publishing company. Petunia had been shocked to receive a letter from a publisher promising to release the letters. Petunia had agreed –maybe there was a small chance it would reach her son. She had taken the pen-name of Lilly Galbraith.

Unexpectedly, the small book had been a success and the editor asked for more. Petunia wrote about a lonely girl trying to protect her youngest sister who was trying to befriend with the wild little Prince hiding in the playground castle.

A third book had been requested. In this one, Petunia explained how the oldest sister drifted away from her youngest sister after the latter was sent to a boarding school for the gifted with the little Prince. She explained how the jealousy and rancor slowly insinuated itself in the little girl's heart as she saw her parents dotting over their youngest child being less and less attentive to their eldest child. How each little attention from her sister had made her angrier and angrier. How she had distanced herself from her family cursing them for abandoning her when she was the one who abandoned them.

The book would be published in a couple of weeks but Petunia felt no pride at her success. She just felt the bitter bite of regrets piercing her heart.

The books had earned her some money: some of which she had put in two accounts: one for her Dudley and one for her nephew wherever he was. Giving him money, that was all she could do for him now as there was no taking back on those years of abuse she had made him suffered through.

Her new money-making career, her good behavior and her sincere regrets had granted her an earlier release. But Petunia barely felt any joy as she stood lost in front of the prison.

She felt like a wraith and she surely looked like one: her hair hung limp down her shoulders, her sunken eyes had lost their shine and were now staring dully at the world. Her frame had gone near skeletal and the old faded dress she had wore the day of her jailing, now hung loosely on her formless body.

"Petunia!" A voiced cried and she felt someone engulfed her in a hug.

She shivering in fear and in relief, letting the tears fell down her face.

"Oh, Petunia dearest."

The person hugged her tighter.

She had not thought there would be someone waiting for her on the other side, the side where people were.

Not normal people, just people.

She did not believed in normal anymore.

Normal had just been a fantasy of hers: something to set her apart from her sister. She had never been able to compete on equal ground with her sister on anything. And she had found that 'Normal' was the only thing she was and her sister could not be.

And she had clung to it like a leach. It had become her obsession.

From the moment, that headmaster had rejected her at the age of twelve, she never did anything that was not 'normal':

She went to average all girl middle school and High school and made two friends as was the norm. When she graduated at the normal age of 18, she decided on a feminine career of secretary –which, at the time, was in the norm.

She married at the very normal age of twenty-one, with a man she had been dating for two years and who was twenty-three –once again the average.

She had abandoned her study to become a housewife as it was normal for a wife to do.

They had bought a normal little house in a normal neighborhood according to their average middle-class statue.

And within a year into her marriage, she had conceived a son and he had looked like his father as was the norm.

None of her choices had been motivate by real feelings. All her life had been about normalcy.

Not even her marriage had been about love.

She had not married Vernon to mock her parents or in an act of rebellion like Lilly seemed to believe.

She had married him in an optic of normalcy.

It was normal to be married before you were 25 and it was normal to answer yes when you were proposed. Petunia had barely thought about her feelings for Vernon at the time, or her parents' disapproval: she had just done what was expected of her as normal.

Oh, she had been happy with Vernon!

During the few years they had lived together, he had treated her nicely. In the first year, he would always come back from work with a bouquet of flowers. Then in the course of the second year, the flowers had been only for special occasion until she did not get any anymore. But Petunia did not mind because it had been the norm.

Their marriage had ended up being more a shaky friendship than a love story. But once again that was the norm.

When Vernon had taken out his frustration on her nephew, she turned a blind eye, as was the norm. And also because she hated what the little boy represented. She had not though that this violence would ever be directed at her. After all, Vernon had just tried to ease her nephew out of magic like a bad habit that needed to be shaken off before it was even formed.

She had been wrong. Oh so wrong...

That day she had written that letter to Dumbledore, Vernon had come home drunk and angry.

Petunia had watched with sick fascination as parts of her skin turned a gradient of blue and yellow: Hand-prints, fist-prints, fingers and shoe-soil patterns were decorating her skin in a sick patchwork. And that night, she had cried over her mistakes. Over her hatred and her need for normalcy which had led her where she was now, laying underneath her over-weight husband, broken like a defective doll.

But she had stayed with him unable to break free from her addiction to normalcy: It was not normal for a woman to divorce her husband.

And the beating continued: once every other day in the beginning, but, when they were summoned to the court, it had become a nightmare. She could not do anything right and Vernon would yell at her at every turn, lulling his whiskey bottle.

The first day of the trial, Petunia had put on her blue flower pattern dress and her blue heel-less shoes as the barrister had recommended. She had clumsily tried to cover her bruises, but she could not do much. To her surprise, her Barrister had requested separate trials –which he had obtained– and had assigned her husband his assistant.

"The case is already lost for him." The man had explained. "But with those bruises, I may be able to cut yours down a couple of years."

Petunia had pleaded guilty of all charge while her husband had denied. She had refused to take the stand, fearing that what she might said could be used against Vernon. She had stood silent during the all trial, sitting in the deck, her eyes looking down at her hands folded on her knees, her bruises clear for the world to see. She knew she must have looked pitiful but she could not get herself to care.

"Petunia..."

She was shook roughly out of her memories.

"Philomena." Petunia answered, looking at her old friend.

She was one of the woman she had befriended with in Private drive. One of the few who had stood by her side during the trial. She had even raised found for Petunia's defense and stood as a witness for Petunia.

"Come with me, you can't stay here." Philomena said as stirred Petunia away. "Brenna and Leta are waiting for us in the car."

Petunia bent down to take her briefcase. Seven year of her life were contained in this small luggage.

Philomena led her by the arm to the car.

A new life would begin for Petunia Evans.

* * *

Walburga had promised her Antarès a trip to Diagon Alley to get him a wand. She had tried to delay it as much as possible, fearing that Antarès would be recognized and snatched away from her.

After the ritual, he had not changed as much as she had expected: his shoulders had widened along with his hands, his waist had narrowed a bit, his jaw had strengthen. His hair also had taken a wavy side it did not have before and had thicken making them less of a bird nest. Walburga had made him grown it to make it easier to hide the scar.

The only thing of Harry's mother that remained was the bright green eyes. Apparently none of his family had had the gene in their blood and it had not been possible to remove. Walburga had tried to change the color using the most complex charms she could find in the Most Ancient Black library but to no avail, the eyes remained a bright shade of green.

And those eyes were so distinctive that she feared that anyone who had known his accursed mother would recognize him.

She had managed to put off the trip for a few days now. But she could not anymore, she had already accepted to get him a wand and he sorely needed one.

There was no-way that Walburga would defile her ancestors' memory like so many family did, training their youngster using dead family members' wand!

It was positively disgusting!

She snorted in disgust remembering the rumor saying that Augusta Longbottom had given her grand-son, Neville, her son's wand.

Not even dead, and he was desecrated!

How vile!

How low had fallen the once proud family of Longbottom!

A simple mistake in the choosing of the bride...

Augusta had not seemed to be such a bad choice: she was from a minor pure-blooded family, she would not have gained the Longbottom any political power but the much needed new blood was far more precious.

But now, the Longbottom would not even afford a new wand for their heir!

How the mighty had fallen!

She would never make the same mistake as the Longbottom!

For her Antarès, Walburga had already arranged a contract with a French family: if the bride had any of what she had listed as dismissing flaws, the contract would be voided as would be any marriage resulting from it. Of course, if any child was born out of the unfortunate union, Antarès would be the one to keep them: the most Ancient and Noble House of Black could easily correct any flaws from the mother's side.

Walburga closed her eyes, smiling a little.

The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black would continue on despite the traitor!

Walburga was shaken out of her thought by Antarès' soft childish voice.

"The Leaky Cauldron." He over-articulated and in a whoosh of green flame he was gone.

She took a handful of powder herself and throwing the powder into the fire, she stepped inside the human-side hearth.

"The Leaky Cauldron." She said.

She stepped into the disgustingly dusty pub. It was dirty and dark and greasy in a word disgusting.

She had petitioned once when politic was still one of her interest about having a proper floo station inside the proper Alley. But that lobbyist in charge of that infernal dark-age flea-infested pub/inn, had managed to convince the Winzengamot that it would be unnecessary. Of course he would, after all, the MoM did pay him a rent for the use of his floo and often people using the floo would stop by drinking an Ale.

"Come with me, Antarès." She sneered as she sized her Antarès' arm. "There is no need for us to stay more than necessary in this establishment."

"Yes, Grand Mother Walburga."

She led him quickly to the back door into the backyard sneering in disgust at the dingy little space and tapped a selection of bricks and the bricks glided open into Diagon Alley.

As she entered the alley, she scrutinized her surrounding for any person she would like to avoid. The Malfoy, for example: Her niece Narcissa, and her husband were often after news of her –more likely they were trying to be on her good side waiting for her death–; or Emilia Redbulder: she had that horrible tendency to babble about her family always showing off to Walburga and reminded Walburga of her 'short-coming' –as Emilia called them– with her sons; or that horrible woman: Rita Skeeter: that 'journalist' had no sense of property, really!

Walburga shook her head, none of them were there apparently. She scanned the alley again, scolding when she caught the sight of a cluster of red-hair marching down the alley, none of them wearing robes.

"How undignified!" Walburga muttered. "Weasley!"

Walburga tugged at her Grandson's arm.

"Be attentive, Antarès!" She scolded.

"Yes, Grand Mother." Antarès answered respectfully.

"We shall first go to the goblins." She explained. "Then we will go to the menagerie for a pet. A reward for your good work."

His face was blank of any emotion to Walburga's great satisfaction.

"Thank you, Grand Mother." He respectfully replied.

The trip to the bank was a short one as Walburga had already informed the goblins about what she wanted. She had made sure that Antarès was written as next in line after Sirius in the succession order.

Of course, she was pretty sure that traitor would die soon: Surviving twelve years in Azkaban was a feat but she was pretty sure he would not see a thirteenth. In this case, she had to insured the continuity of the Black through her Antarès.

Gods forbade that the snotty, ill-raised boy of Narcissa became the next Lord Black. She had yet to meet him but any boy raised by Narcissa Malfoy could not fit her standards.

After all, Narcissa did marry in impure blood knowingly!

It was not a well-known fact, but a few hundred years ago, the Malfoy family had crossed bred with a Veela. Now-a-day, all that persisted was that horrible shade of white blond hair.

When Cygnus had informed her husband and her that he wanted a betrothing contract between the Malfoy and the Black for Narcissa, both she and her husband had been dead set against it.

How her brother –who held blood purity in higher regard than even she did– could think of marrying a Black with that stained line, had astonished her and she had made her disapproval clear to her brother menacing to excommunicate him and his daughters from the family!

That was until she dug out the reason.

Some brides had done the trick!

Narcissa really failed the standards of the Black having such easily corrupted 'friends'.

Apparently, Narcissa had not been able to keep her knickers on until marriage.

Walburga had never thought she would regret not forcing her brother to put a chastity bell on his daughters when he had asked her councils on the subject. She had not been subjected to it herself –her mother had strongly believed that her education would prevent Walburga from stooping so low as to let her carnal desire get the better of her:

She was a Black after all.

Walburga thought that the same would apply for Cygnus' daughters. But apparently, Druella Rosier had been lacking in this department and such a flaw had permitted the staining of the Black family not once but twice!

Unfortunately, Walburga had not been able to convince her husband of the need to disown Narcissa. The Malfoy, regardless of their impurity, were a powerful family and it was wise not to mess up with them. But Walburga would make sure that nothing more than the dowry would come from the Black to the Malfoy.

"We just need a bit of his blood to insure that he is indeed a Black by blood." Surtr (2), the goblin in charge of the Black fortune, explained.

"Of course." Walburga agreed urging her Antarès in front of the desk where was lying the official family tree parchment: No name could be added without blood as no name would be taken away from it without the proof of the removal of any Black blood.

The tree on the forest green parchment was quite similar to the one on the tapestry in the Black London household: small portraits accompanied with the corresponding name carefully etched, in blue letters for the living and Black letters for the departed, under which were embroidered the year of birth and the year of death. The name of the current head of the house was etched in crimson red: Sirius Orion Black III. Her own name was lined in Red to informed of her regency over the Black as the current head of the Black was unavailable. Walburga let her eyes wandered to the face of her dear husband embroidered next to her own a thin veil now covering the face of the departed.

She was startled out of her thoughts by her Antarès blood falling on the parchment, the delicate crimson pearl was slowly absorbed by the paper and ever so slowly a small vine sprouted out from the traitor name becoming wider and wider a face began to etched itself over the end of the Branch and a name:

'Antarès Aymeric Potter-Black' etched in pure white standing out against the dark forest green of the parchment, signaling Antarès as the heir.

And a date:

'1980'

There was no name for the mother, it would be easily explained as the traitor had not been married at the time of the conception. As for the name Potter, it could be easily explained as the traitor sharing his heir with his stealing lying Gryffindor friend like five years old make blood pack to unite their family.

"Everything is in order." Surtr assured as he looked over the parchment one last time.

"Since everything is in order, I will take my leave Sir Surtr. May Gold always shine on your path." Walburga bade her goodbye to the goblin.

Walburga trotted out of the bank by the same concealed door she had entered. No need to give herself away waltzing through the main doors. The Affair of Black should stay private and there was no need to show off as a Malfoy would.

Black were above that.

Walburga quickly made her way to the menagerie. The shop would be closed to any other client for the next two hours as she had requested total privacy when she had reserved the White-Billed Crow she wanted to gift her Antarès with. It was a small bird pretty rare in Britain but the color of its iris reminded Walburga sharply of her children and thus she had chosen it.

Of course, it had to be a crow. Every heir of the Black had been bestowed their own crow at the age of twelve. It would be their official bird messenger. Neither the head of the house of Black nor the Black heir should have to lower themselves using vulgar owls for official businesses.

Of course the traitor was never treated to such an honor after he had himself sorted in that accursed house -every-one knew that the old hat was easily influenced and Walburga suspected that the headmaster had had his hands in the matter.

No Black could naturally be sorted in Gryffindor! Black were, of course, Slytherin!

Ravenclaw maybe, Hufflepuff was extreme but still a possibility slim as it was.

But Gryffindor? That was definitely not in the Black genes!

Walburga shook her head, now was not the time to think of the traitor. No, today was about her Antarès, the true heir of the Black.

"Lady Black, Young Mr. Black." The petite owner of the menagerie called discretely, bowing her head slightly in acknowledgment. "I've your crow ready as you've asked; I've taken the liberty to send to your town house, all the things that would be needed to keep the bird. Now if you would follow me a second in the back for the bounding..."

Walburga guided her Antarès quickly through the alley full of exotic animals waiting to be picked up.

"Am I getting a crow, Grand Mother?" Her Antarès asked softly.

"Of course, you are. You are the heir of the Black." Walburga smiled proudly at her grandson.

"I'll need a bit of your blood, young mister Black." The woman asked.

Her Antarès took the needle presented to him and pierced the tip of his left pointer finger. A drop that was all that was needed and that was all the shop-keeper would have.

"Do you have a name?" The woman asked.

"Is it male or female?" Her Antarès answered back.

"Male." The woman answered.

"Krähe(3), then. He shall be called Krähe." Her Antarès decided.

The bounded ceremony took a few minutes after which the beautiful white-billed crow perched himself on her Antarès' shoulder rearranging his feathers.

"A pleasure to make business with you." The woman said as she counted down the galleon Walburga had paid her.

"The pleasure is shared." Walburga answered as she quickly exited the shop.

Now to Ollivander, she disliked the seemingly all-knowing shop-keeper but the quality of his work was indisputable and Black only went to the best.

"Ah, mister Potter-Black." The old man said with an all-knowing smile as he came out of his reserve. "I was waiting for you."

Walburga gritted her teeth: she really hated people who knew more than they should about the Blacks.

"We do not have the all day, Mr. Ollivander." Walburga interrupted rudely.

Walburga was happy to see the man's face closed off, returning to a more professional attitude, he proceeded to take her Antarès' data.

"For the wood maybe Elder or... born in July... Holly would surely be a better choice... definitely more than ten inches... hmmm..." Ollivander muttered under his breath.

Walburga watched with an eagle eye as the old man took several cases out of the high shelves.

"Try this one, young master." Ollivander told her Antarès presenting reverently the first wand. "Holly, ten inches and one fourth, Unicorn tail-hair."

Antarès tried to take the wand but like two magnet of the same charge, the wand literally flew away from his touch.

"Definitely not unicorn then." Ollivander muttered. "Holly, ten inches and a half, Dragon heart-string."

Antarès tried to take the wand in his hand but the simplest contact burnt him.

"No dragon either." Ollivander lamented. "Holly, ten inches and three quarter, Veela hair."

When Antarès tried to touch it, the wand began to hop in its box erratically making a high pitch sound like a screech.

"Not Veela either." Ollivander bit down his finger nail.

Walburga smirked appreciatively, of course the most common wand cores would not fit her Antarès, her Antarès was special, the hope of the Black.

"Maybe..." Ollivander muttered to himself going in the back of his shop. "Holly, Eleven inches, Phoenix feather."

Walburga frowned as she caught a curious gleam in the shop-keeper eyes. Her eyes turned back to her grandson, who carefully brushed the wood with his fingertips and immediately the wand answered sending multicolored sparkles around the room.

"Holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather, it is then." Ollivander confirmed. "Nice and supple..."

Walburga was sure the old shop-keeper had something to add but he wisely chose to keep his mouth shot when she glared at him.

"I expect the utmost privacy about this transaction, Mr Ollivander." Walburga demanded as she paid the fee for the wand.

"I assure you, Madam, that I have always respected the privacy of my clients." Ollivander answered clearly offended.

"Well! Keep it this way then." Walburga spat as she exited the store her Antarès respectfully following her two paces behind.

* * *

**End of the chapter**

**

* * *

**

(1) HM Prison Holloway: is not mine but the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland's as the name suggests.

(2) Surtr: Old Norse "black" or "the black one"

(3) Krähe: crow in German

Thanks for reading. Now Review Please!


	4. Chapter 4: The Aunt & the Dark knight

Hello,

This Story is crashed beta-ed by **SOY-chou** because I took so much time to write this chapter that having it gone through an other beta would only delay the publishing progress further.

Thanks none-the-less to all those who volunteered themselves as Beta! Sorry but I am such a slow writer that I often get restless for quick release when I finish a chapter (which took me more than a year to finish ;_; ).

Thanks to all reviewers: **Greener **(X2)**; Imperial Dragon ; ep **(Merci !)**; itachisgurl93; Cobra0000; Storyscriber **(Walburga jealously kept Antarès for herself. Harry was not often allow out if at all. So no lesson with the Prince for him.)**; jannus **(thank you very much)**; Flightless Bird; DarkRavie; Isabelledward; Lady Logos **(X2)**; Failing Mentality; Madd Girl; darkwish3.**

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.  
.

* * *

**Wearing Masks**

* * *

**Chapter 4: The Blonde Step-Aunt and the Dark Knight**

* * *

She had died just like that: one night she went to sleep after her last cup of tea and the next morning she would not wake up.

And Harry was left alone.

He would have to organize the funeral. Nothing grandiose, Grandmother Walburga would not have liked that. All she wanted was to be laid next to her husband in Black cemetery in Blackpool Lancaster.

"Kreacher." He whispered calmly.

The vile gargoyle appeared in a soft pop, eyes rimmed an ugly shade of red, nose running and his disgusting rag wet with the freshly shed tears and snot.

"What Kreacher can do for Young Master Antarès?" Kreacher moaned in between sobs.

"I want you to go get a ministry official to register Grandmother death." Harry ordered in his coldest voice. "Hurry up already! I'll begin the preparation as is customary."

The gargoyle disappeared in a soft pop. And Harry made his way up the stairs to the attic where Grandmother Walburga's portrait was.

He tried not to think of what it all meant for him: Being alone again. They might send him back to Aunt Petunia!

Harry shook his head.

Now was not the time to wonder about what would happen to him. He had things to do. Before the ministry official was to arrive to register Grandmother's death, he needed to have the portrait in Grandmother's room.

As per tradition, for the next twenty four hours, the portrait, which was charmed to acquire the subject's memories and personality at the time of their death, was to be suspended over-seeing the body.

Then, during those twenty four hours, friends and family would come in turn to pay their respect: It was called the Departing. At the end of the twenty-fourth hour, the corpse would be prepared cloaked in linen rubbed with salt then burnt to ashes. The ashes would then be gathered and put in an urn which would be sealed and submerged in holy water – as was the Black tradition –, to ensure that no-one would be able to desecrate the remains of the departed. Then the urn would be sent to the cemetery where it would be buried.

Before the end of the week, the will would be read in front of all those concerned or their representatives.

Harry carefully stepped down the last step and let out a loud tired breath. He really wished he had been able to use a levitating charm or a reducing charm, but it would disrupt the magic inside the canvas which, at the moment, was very unstable.

With great difficulty, Harry managed to get the over-sized portrait suspended opposite to Grandmother Walburga's bed.

The portrait immediately took life, the color of Grandmother Walburga's face took a slightly pinker shade, her blond hair took the shine that the painter had obviously been unable to reproduce, and her eyes cleared taking a more lively tone.

"So I'm dead." The creaking voice of Grandmother Walburga echoed.

"May your passing bring you to peace." Harry recited the customary words.

"Ah! My Antarès!" The portrait smiled at him.

Harry cringed a little at the possessive tone of the departed woman.

"Such a perfect Black heir!" She cooed.

"I have to go Grandmother Walburga." Harry quickly excused himself.

"Of course, My Antarès." She answered with a smile.

Harry bowed respectfully at the portrait and hurried back to his room to prepare for the mourning: First, he had to take a dragon blood (1) permeated purifying bath. For clothing, he would have to wear a pure white robe with the insignia of the family – the customary garment wore by the departed family –, the only jewelry accepted would be heir and lordship signet. The lack of flourish in any form was a way to show their respect to the departed. And, of course, wands were to be kept out of sight.

"You must be humble in front of death, My Antarès! Only the tasteless and tactless would show their fortune off at a departing." Grandmother had explained.

Being the heir of Black, Harry would have to crop his hair in the customary heir-grooming: high ponytail attached with a white slash of the same material as the robe.

Harry sighed casting a simple time charm: half an hour since Kreacher had gone. He would better hurry to the door to welcome the ministry official.

Kreacher had already appeared at the door side, ready to open the door.

"May you be welcome in the most ancient and noble house of Black. The departed lady Walburga Black is waiting for you." Kreacher croaked as he opened the door.

It was one of the few sentences that had been drilled into the gargoyle's mind. Over and over again, Kreacher had to repeat it in perfect English until Grandmother Walburga was satisfied and for each mistake, a round of atrocious threats was called but never enacted.

Harry found it quite bizarre that Kreacher had never been taught proper English. Would it not be easier to teach him proper English than to make him learn a few odd sentences?

But, when he asked Grandmother Walburga, she had scolded him:

"Knowledge is a weapon. You must be careful who you impart it to."

Harry had yet to understand what Grandmother Walburga meant. All he knew that he had to keep the Black secrets from anyone whose name was absent from the Black Tree.

He briefly glanced at the tree: Grandmother's name had turned black.

**WM**

Narcissa smirked at her husband.

"She is dead." She announced coldly, taking a white robe out of her wardrobe.

Her husband was already dressed in his own white robe, the signet ring of the Malfoy shining at his left index finger, hands firmly closed around the top of his cane.

"Is Draco ready?" Her husband asked.

"I asked one of the house elves to get him ready." Narcissa answered.

She ignored Lucius' frown of disapproval. She knew the man thought she depended too much on those creatures. Furthermore, her 'fault', as he put it, was staining his son.

"Hopefully, now that Walburga Black is dead, we will be able to reclaim what is ours by right!" Lucius spat angrily.

Narcissa knew that it was all because of the dowry which had been cut down in half under the order of one lady Walburga Black.

Narcissa had gotten used to the angry comments of her husband. Each time her family was mentioned, his mood would turn sour.

She was just a trophy wife, a whore easily bough by jewelry in the eye of her family. She could remember the look of her aunt as she announced she wanted to marry with The Malfoy Heir.

She had not understood their reaction at all! Marrying Lucius would further improve her social position and her family's. And the best part was they were attached to each other.

Narcissa clenched her teeth at the bitter memory of her aunt yelling and spitting at her.

But now, with her Aunt's death, she could take over the regency. It would be easy for her to have her newly-clean-of-charge cousin put under her guardianship. His stay in Azkaban had surely damaged his mind irrevocably.

If her family would not recognize her achievement, she would take over it and make them bend to her will! She would not be ranked as lowly as that wretched traitor of Andromeda anymore!

She added a little bit of blush on her cheeks to accentuate her features. Of course tradition demanded not to wear any artifice of any kind, but she would rather be dead than caught going out in public without make-up on. And, in her opinion, some traditions were made to be ignored.

She walked down the hall to the main entrance of the Malfoy manor. She ignored the disapproving look of her husband at her painted face. It was their only source of conflict: tradition. Lucius would want to follow them down to the letter but she wanted to be a little bit less strict about it.

She bent down to kiss the top of her son's head.

"Mother." Her little dragon moaned in disapproval patting his short hair back into place.

She smirked arrogantly.

Soon, she would be rich and powerful on her own merits, and no-one would dare to look down on her ever again.

**WM**

Harry walked down the stairs. That person from the ministry was really horrible!

She had dared to talk him down. Accusing him of usurping his title! Grandmother Walburga had yelled and yelled profanities to the woman. Words that Harry had never heard before and some he wondered the exact meaning of.

After showing the woman out – kicking her out –, he waited patiently for the first members of the family to show up.

He had discretely sent a letter to the Tonks, He knew that Andromeda Black-Tonks had been 'burned' out of the Black tapestry by Grandmother Walburga and would not be welcome at her departing. But he thought he should at least warn her of Grandmother Walburga's passing.

He had, of course, not said a word about it to Grandmother, as she would have clearly disapproved.

He heard a knock coming from the back door and frowned. The back door was for family only, could it be the Malfoy already?

Then he heard Kreacher curse.

He ran down quickly to the door.

"What is it Kreacher?" Harry demanded.

"Harry?" Came a croaked voice.

Harry frowned, he had not been called like that for so long. He knew that voice somewhat, even if it seems different: deformed, older, tired.

"Kreacher, let him in!" Harry ordered firmly.

Kreacher moved out of the way slowly, growling like a dog, showing his yellow decayed teeth.

Harry frowned, Kreacher only acted like that when someone Grandmother Walburga did not approve showed up without notice. Which meant that Kreacher knew the stranger.

Harry looked up and down at the stranger. He was tall and lanky, his gray eyes surrounded by the tell-tale black blue bruises of sleepless nights. He looked like he'd not had a good meal in quite a long time, also. Otherwise his appearance seemed somewhat neat: he wore a slightly out-of-fashion black robe over an obviously muggle outfit.

"Kreacher prepare the man a good meal, please." Harry ordered softly, letting the man in.

"Harry... Harry... Harry..." The man threw himself at Harry.

"Who are you?" Harry asked. "Are you here for the departing?"

Maybe that man had come for the departing and in a fit of rebellion had chosen to forsaken the traditional gowns. He really must have wanted to anger Grandmother Walburga, Harry thought to himself. But he knew Grandmother Walburga would not be Grandmother Walburga if she did not pest after something.

"I'm Sirius Black. I'm your Godfather! You're Harry, aren't you?" The man babbled out.

Harry noted the desperation in the stranger voice.

"Sirius Black? The head of the house of Black?" Harry muttered to himself.

"What? What is this?" Sirius said gripping Harry's hand. "The heir signet ring. How? Are you not Harry? No, no, no, you're Harry. You have to be him!"

"I was Harry, I was Freak too. But now I'm Antarès Americ Black, Heir of the most ancient and noble house of Black. Son of Sirius Orion Black the third and Persephone Noringhton." Harry explained. "But I would not mind being Harry again, I liked being Harry."

"You're Harry! You're Harry!" The man chanted sizing Harry firmly into a hug knocking the bowl of soup down in the process.

"Hey!" Harry protested jumping out of the liquid way. "I need this to stay clean! Grandmother Walburga would have a cow if I stained my robe before the end of her departing!"

"Departing?" The man's eyes widened.

"Grandmother Walburga died during the night." Harry explained. "You should get prepared as well."

Harry took the man's hand and proceeded to drag him upstairs.

**WM**

Andromeda Tonks was surprised by the arrival of a crow inside her house. She considered chasing the ill-omen bird when her eyes fell on the crow's claws on which were attached a piece of parchment.

She frowned: only the Black lord and heir used crow as messengers and she was pretty sure that her cousin Sirius, even with his new found freedom, would rather take an owl than use the traditional crow, symbol of their family.

She quickly took the message out of the claws of the crow:

_'To Andromeda Black-Tonks.'_ It read in flourished black script.

_'It is with a heavy heart that I came to inform you of the passing of your aunt: Lady Regent Walburga Irma Black. _

_Sincerely,_

_Heir apparent of the Black. _

_Antarès Aymeric Black.'_

The letter was short and to the point, lacking clearly of the flourish which usually embellished the letter from her Aunt.

Even the letter announcing her disowning had not been so short – Andromeda really wished it had been:

It had been filled with imaginary faults of her husband and of any children who would be born out of their union. Aunt Walburga had gone on for two pages on how she was degrading herself and the Black and betraying the family motto.

She read the short message again: whoever that heir of the Black was, he had surely not known aunt Walburga to inform HER, the disgrace of the Black, the biggest stain in the Black family, of the old bigoted woman's passing.

She wondered briefly how the boy had been able to claim the title so quickly. It seemed impossible for the boy to have been named heir of the Black while her Aunt was still alive: she would have never accepted a bastard whom she would not have raised. And if she had raised him, she would have made sure to debilitate him with her idea on blood superiority and inflexible traditions and he would not have even considered to contact someone as 'dirty' as her, low worm she was in the eyes of her Aunt.

Before she met her Ted, she had always been considered a good daughter and sister. Her parents loved her and doted on her and her aunt approved of her – she always talked about how much alike they were, pride of the Black family they were.

She was the role model of her two younger sisters, the 'perfection' to reach. They were not the perfect family of course: it was hard to live up to her aunt's expectation. But they had been good enough, she had thought at the time. She would never have thought that her family would turn their back to her.

She had been so naive at the time. But she never had any regrets!

Ted loved her and taught her what a real family was like; far from the siblings rivalry, far from inflexible rules, far from unreachable expectation, far from blood-purity. She was simply happy and she would not change that for all the fortune in the Black Vaults.

She really pitied the boy who would have to live up to all those expectations, especially if her little sister, Narcissa, and her husband got their hands on him. Of course, with Sirius new found freedom, the man could surely claim guardianship over the boy. But then, with the minister so easily swayed...

Andromeda quickly got up, she had to warn Dumbledore. If there was one person who could do something about the boy, save him from the darkness, hatred, paranoia which plagued the Black and the pure-blooded family, that would be him.

**WM**

Sirius stood in front of the door of his mother's room, unsure what to do. The last time they had spoken to each other was just after his father's departing ceremony. And it had been quite ugly to say the least. She had screamed at him, outraged that he had dared to come. She had accused him of coming only to gloat over her dear husband's death. She had spit his name like a curse and had refused to let him in the room to pay his respect to his father.

It was on those time he regretted having chosen his friendship with James over his family. While he did not embrace the same ideology as his parents – blood did not make the wizard! –, he still loved his family deep down inside.

When his mother had sent him a howler – which had arrived in the privacy of his dorm – when he had been sorted in Gryffindor, he had tried to play it down like he did not care – his newly form friendship with James had helped with that. Their friendship had bloomed strong and quick as Sirius had been isolated of all he knew being sorted in Gryffindor. None of the 'friends' from childhood – all of whom had been sorted in Slytherin – would speak more than two words to him, looking in contempt at him as he was a lowly worm, a disgrace to his pure-blood status.

Even after receiving a letter from his father congratulating him for forming a friendship with the Potters whom, while being light sided fools, had political leverage and blood status equal to the Blacks, Sirius had felt abandon by his family. And if there was one thing Sirius Black feared above all, it was to be alone.

From there on, he had clung on James and his family – preferring to spend the holidays with the Potter rather than visiting his parents and antagonizing his parents at every turn by sticking Gryffindor banner in his room and muggle poster of girls in swimsuit. He had followed James blindly, partaking in foolish pranks to take his mind off the fact that his family disapproved of him and his behavior – but do not take him wrong, he loved pulling pranks and all the devious planning it involved. But true to his blood and his dark nature, he did take the prank too far. Like he had done with Severus Snape.

He had hated the boy who, despite his blood status – he was just a half-blood, for Merlin sake! –, had awed the Slytherin and gained, grudgingly, their respect for his excellent potion making ability and his spell work. Sirius knew that his hatred of the boy was irrational, but he could not bare to see the boy succeed where he had failed. If Sirius had been more like Snape, his family would not have abandoned him. It had been a fortunate turn of event that James, too, had developed an irrational jealousy of Snivellus – as they dubbed him – for his friendship with the charming Lily. They had taken on bullying him on every turn and Snivellus, far from being a meek Hufflepuff, had given back as much as he got – a fit worthy of a Slytherin considering that the ratio was 1 to 4. Sirius had taken it a step further when he had pretty much sent Snivellus to his death.

He had played the card of the thoughtless idiotic teenager adding it to the fact that he was a Gryffindor and thus impulsive and unpredictable, he had not thought that Snape could have died that night. It was just a harmless prank, he had pleaded. But the truth was that, that night, Sirius had known exactly what he was doing sending Snape to the shack.

Gullible Dumbledore had believed him. He could not see fault in any Gryffindor anyway. What with his turning a blind eye to the bullying they had put Snape through!

Finally, it had been decided that the 'incident' as Dumbledore called it, would be kept under wraps – for Remus' sake as well as James – and only the parents of the party involved would be warned.

Not that it matter much to him. In a fit of rebellion, he had cut all ties to his family at the mere age of sixteen over a trip he wanted to take with the Potter to some Greek islands. His mother had said no, his father had answered likewise, they were going to Germany that year for a series of Ball for Pure-Blood stuck up. It would have been his first official outing as the heir of the Black.

His mother had been outraged by his lack of interest in his duty as heir of Black, she had sent him the second howler he would ever receive in his life which he had not even bothered to answer to. His mother had proceeded to blast his name from the tapestry – much good it did – and ordered his father to disown him.

And that was how he ended up publicly disowned. Publicly but not officially. His father never went through the ceremony which would definitely strip him of his Black status. Maybe his father had had a slither of hope for him.

Sirius shook his head, trying to get out of his too vivid memories. Those were one of the numerous memories the Dementor's thrall dug out of his mind. They apparently loved regrets as much as despair and Sirius did live with a lot of regrets.

Sirius looked at the door, he would not add it to his long list of regrets. He would see his mother and talk to her. He would tell her how much she had hurt him and how much he had wished things had gone differently.

**WM**

Narcissa looked at the slightly battered pelting blue-painted back door. She had insisted they went through the front door, like any other guests. But her husband had stood firm and insisted they went through the back.

Where was his pride? To be forced through the servant gate!

She bombed her torso, raised her chin up and looked down at the disgusting pelting blue door. And now, she had to knock on it, actually touch the filthy things with her delicate hand. She just wanted to call on one of her house-elves to do it in her stead or better yet, go through the regal front door! But her husband stood just behind her, pressing her to knock on that blasted back door.

And where was that house-elf which her aunt seemed to favor so much? Kitcher, Ketcher, Kratcher whatever! It should have already opened the door to avoid her lowering herself further.

She reluctantly rapped her delicate hand on the wooden door and proceeded to impatiently tap her right foot the dirty half-buried welcome mat.

She glared angrily at her husband who stood tall, a step behind her.

The door cricked opened and Narcissa pushed her way inside the high ceiling Kitchen. She grimaced at the old fashion coal-covered lead cookware precarious hanging on the battered wall.

Could aunt Walburga upgrade her Kitchen already?

Lead cookware were so 60's, now it was time for copper cookware! It gave a way better taste to things than the low-quality lead!

She turned around brutally her hair flying over her face.

"Why did it take you so long to answer?" Narcissa snarled in anger at the disgusting creature half hidden behind the door.

"Kreacher be sorry, Mistress Malfoy. Kreacher have attend Master." The elf explained spatting out the word Master as he would a curse.

Narcissa snarled at the elf disgusting appearance. She, at least, had all her elves in clean pillowcase with the Malfoy Armory – apart from that disgusting little beast called Dobby! He could not keep its own clean to save his life which led to numerous gruesome punishment that Narcissa made a point to see through for each and every of them.

Fortunately, last year, her husband had seen fit to release him from his service.

A good riddance, if you asked her!

"Ah, Sorry for the wait!" A young voice came.

Narcissa looked up to see a young boy no older than her own little dragon, standing at the top of the stairs. He had long dark wavy hair fashioned in a high ponytail as was required for the heir of the house, his skin was fair and pale, his brilliant green eyes looked straight forward into her eyes with the pride any pure-blood should possess. But what caught Narcissa's attention, was the ring on the boy left index: It was the Black heir signet!

How was that possible?

Narcissa pursed her lips.

That signet belonged to her son! And no-one else!

"Welcome to the most noble and ancient house of Black." The young man explained as the custom required, bowing his head slightly in greeting. "I'm Antarès Aymeric Black, Heir apparent to the most noble and ancient house of Black."

Narcissa glared at the boy.

Heir apparent of the Black? How was it possible? How had it happened without her notice?

Had Sirius been so careless as to have some bastard with one of his whores?

"I'm Lord Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. Here is my Wife, Lady Narcissa Irma Malfoy née Black. And my son, Heir apparent Draco Lucius Malfoy." Lucius called out glaring at his wife for forgetting herself.

Narcissa gritted her teeth as her husband bowed his head to the bastard.

"Please, follow me, I'll show you to the departed." The bastard answered back.

Narcissa listened, distracted, as the bastard made small polite talk with her husband about the absence of his 'father' and the political state of the wizards' world leading them through the maze of stairs and rooms.

"You may wish to go to refresh yourself before facing the departed." The bastard discretely whispered to her as he showed her husband and son in.

"I do not need anything from a bastard like you." She whispered back coldly straightening herself.

She stepped inside the room, her head high and her icy blue eyes staring directly at the corpse of her aunt. She had to control herself not to smile in glee at the long awaited sight.

"Grandmother Walburga, Father. The Malfoy arrived to bid Grandmother their farewell." The bastard announced.

"Narcissa." Sirius acknowledged looking quite upset with something.

Narcissa doubted it had anything to do with the sudden death of his mother.

"Narcissa! You never had an ounce of decorum while I was alive, it is no surprise that you would not demonstrate any now that I'm dead! Coming painted like a clown at my departing! What a disgrace!" Her aunt berated.

But Narcissa could not care less about what the hag could rant about. She wanted explanation about this bastard! Where did he come from?

"So cousin, where did you get this little bastard? Which of your little whores played you for a fool?" Narcissa attacked, wanting to reel her cousin.

She ignored the disproving glanced of her husband as she looked down at her reddening cousin.

A plan was already forming in her head, she would get the Black Lordship no matter what!

**WM**

'So this man is Sirius Black.' Harry wondered as he stood in the back of the room, half listening to his Grandmother rants about proper decorum.

He remembered Grandmother Walburga ranting about her traitorous son. Apparently, he had been sorted in the wrong house at Hogwart and associating with wrong crowds.

To Harry, Grandmother Walburga's grudge was a lot like Vernon Dursley love of normalcy: totally biased and a waste of time. Plus he pretty much liked Sirius Black, apart from the fact that, if he was to believe Grandmother – which he did not –, the man was 'his father', Sirius looked eerily like the Dark Knight of his childhood fairytale and he called him Harry a name Harry long to hear himself called by. Not that Antarès was not a good name; he just preferred Harry. It felt just right to him.

Harry's attention was drawn back to the conversation when he heard Narcissa acidic sweet voice utter the word 'Whore'.

"Is that the speech of a lady?" Harry let out. "Such plebeian words in such a beautiful mouth."

Harry could feel all eyes turned on him. He could tell without seeing her that Grandmother Walburga's portrait had a smug smirk hanging on her face, proud that he reacted as she had raised him. He might have looked harmless to most but his tongue could be sharp, quick and poisonous.

Harry watched carefully as Narcissa frame stiffened her eyes narrowing menacingly at him and she knew she was trying to held back a bitter remark. As for her son, he seemed ready to implode into a litany of insults which would surely be as lacking as his mother's in term of creativity. The husband, on the other hand, was looking at him with appraising eyes. And Harry knew, that while the wife and son were useless at this dance, the husband might prove challenging.

"My mother, while having a status, was unfortunately a quite profligate person in her youth which, ultimately, led her to her death." Harry explained briefly.

Harry not so discretely glanced at Narcissa.

"The thoughtlessness of youth." Harry added using the very same phrasing Grandmother Walburga had told him Grand Uncle Cignus had used, years ago, to qualify Narcissa's behavior with Lucius.

"How dare you, little bastard !" Narcissa spit out, glaring at the outrageous boy, recognizing the words for what they were.

"Lord Malfoy." Harry called out, using the man proper title, acknowledging him as someone worth his respect. "Accept my apologize for upsetting your _lady_."

Harry bowed a little in Lucius' direction. Harry smirked knowing this was yet an other blow to Narcissa's pride.

"Please call me uncle, young Antarès." Lucius acknowledged Harry. "Excuse my wife. She is quite upset at the loss of her cherish aunt."

"Uncle." Harry smirked. It was a small victory, but a victory none the less.

His mental victory dance was interrupted by the sound of rapping on the front door. Finally, the first guests coming to pay their respect had finally arrived.

* * *

**To Be Continued...**

* * *

(1) Dragon's Blood does not refer to true dragon's blood but to a powder made out of resin from dracaena (or other plants of the same family.)

Please Leave me a review telling me what you think.

Thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5: Scheming

Hello and happy holidays everyone!

**Beta:** None, I took so much time writing it that getting it beta just now would be a crime.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter.

Sorry for the long wait, I hope this chapter will make up a bit for it. Also the first chapter has been rewritten. Nothing too important was change but more detailed description were added so…

**Thanks to all the reviewers:** **Flightless Bird; DarkRavie; itachisgurl93; Emphy; NoturHeroNeMore; XxTaintedxDaggerxX; Hortensia; sweetmiracle; notyou; sleepingdragon504; bleacher; jumping-jo; Lord Jeram ; Midoriryu; Anonymous; Ceti H. Black; fhippogriff.**

And thanks to all the readers who are following me or/and this story. :)

.

**WM**

**Chapter 5: Scheming**

**WM**

**.**

Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose as he folded the missive he had just received from one Andromeda Tonks née Black.

He had rarely felt his age. His joyful disposition lead him away from the burden of age. But, today, Dumbledore dearly felt all the weight of his 112 years. There had been so much lies and manipulation over the years. Grindelwald, his sister, the Potters to name a few.

He had tried to convince himself it was for the greater good. – a phrase he had adopted from his late lover. And really it was!

He had done great things in advancing the egalitarianism movement like accepting werewolf, half giants and dark creatures alike at Hogwarts – of course, not a word had come to the ear of the public as to not create a wave of panic – or instituting muggle study, or founding the research for the lycantropy cure... He even managed to get the Veela off of the creature list after a lyrical speech in front of International Convention of Wizard – one of his proudest moment.

Every wizards and witches, adults and children alike knew his name. He even had his very own Chocolate frog card – he kept a frame copy of the very first frog card sporting his name just next to his Barnabus Finkley award.

But to achieve this greatness, it had cost so many great wizards and witches: Kyneburg Dodge, James Potter, Lilly Potter, Fabian Prewett and his twin Gideon, Mildred Mayfield... and destroyed so many lives: Frank and Alice Longbottom and their little Neville, Elliana Moon, Sirius Black... all had fallen victims to his short comings.

And he was not sure if it was really worth it...

"Sirius Black." He mouthed, regrets clouding his blue eyes as he stirred his tea.

He had damaged the man way more than Voldemort himself had: Taking away his life and family, treating him like a traitor to be cursed and hated, condemned to insanity in the dark cold prison of Azkaban tortured by those _creatures_.

While, in reality, he had never betrayed! He had stayed true to his friends, to beliefs which had never really been his own. Dumbledore knew that, despite his friendship with the light family of Potter – they had been a surrogate family to the lost teen after his family had cruelly turned their back on him –, Sirius still held a dark side to him. As silent as he kept it, Dumbledore had seen the signs. Sirius could not lie about his dark nature: the pranks, the jibes, the bullying... if it had not been for the Potters and his sorting in Gryffindor, Dumbledore would have had the then Black heir expelled as soon as third year for his bullying way.

But, Dumbledore knew, all this could not erase his lack of faith in the man which had cost Sirius so dearly. And it seemed that Dumbledore's sin did not stop to depraving an innocent man of his honour and his freedom to his greatest shame. After destroying the man's life and tearing him away from his precious Godson, was he also guilty of keeping the man away from a son?

Dumbledore squeezed his eyes shot.

A part of him could not stop but wondered if that child had been abused at the hand of his grandmother, like Harry had at the hand of his own relatives. What kind of hardship Walburga Black could have put the poor soul through?

He had known Walburga as a student and, later on, as a mother. She had been vicious, vindictive, unforgiving and controlling. No one was safe from Walburga Violetta Black's wrath. And her family less than other. He had seen the way she had treated people she thought had wronged her. He had heard the rumours about the vicious howler she had sent to Sirius after his sorting. It was rivalled only by the current Mrs Weasley's one if one believed the grapevine.

The boy, Sirius' boy, had been raised by the most hateful woman Dumbledore had had the dubious pleasure to met. And, what was worst, without outside input to temper the vile tongue of the Black matriarch. What hope was there for Sirius to be accepted by his son?

The answer was there was NONE!

Dumbledore raised from his seating position, taking swift steps toward the door, he grabbed his stars stubbed overcoat as he flew down the flight of stairs leading to the corridor of the school.

He needed to speak with that Black heir if only to see if, like his father, the boy could be saved from the hatred the late lady Black had surely instilled in the poor boy's heart.

**WM: Scheming**

Narcissa stood in front of her vanity carefully applying her beauty cream before adding her home-made foundation – no foundation in the commerce match her delicate completion: most of them being a shade too dark making her look like she had been on the wrong end of a tanning curse, the other making her look paler than a ghost.

She had, for a time, envisioned of making her own cosmetic line. She certainly had the knowledge with her NEWST in herbology and potion. But she never had the personal founding for that venture, not that her darling Lucius would not provide her with whatever money she needed to start her business if asked; after all whatever was his was hers.

But she would not endure to be the target of her fellows gossipers. Being a pampered wife was one thing but she would never be the whimsical wife whose husband was careless enough to found her folly.

No, she would be a self-made woman who gathered the admiration of all her socialists of friends. And for that, she needed the money from the Black! And she needed it NOW. She had waited long enough for her stupid aunt's death to be spoiled by some bastard coming out of nowhere.

She cursed once again her cousin's libertine life style.

'Maudis soit les Gryffindor! (1)' She muttered in French as she carefully curled her hair around her brush.

She could not believe her aunt: Accepting the illegitimate son of her shameless traitor of a son in the most ancient house of Black. What more she gave the bastard the title of heir of the Black! Preposterous, that title belonged to her son!

Her darling Draco possessed all the qualities of the good breeding he was born in: He was refine, knowledgeable and knew exactly his worth: the perfect heir to the Malfoy name and de facto the perfect heir for the Black.

No cockroaches coming out of nowhere would take what was hers by right.

Narcissa threw angrily the peach tone lipstick she had been applying on her beauty vanity.

She needed to calm down. She was a Malfoy! Well above all those pitiful fools who wanted to judge her. They were nothing! She had everything: riches beyond dreams, power above even the first lady – the stork Madam Fudge was a bubbling fool not unlike her husband – and one of the most sough after status!

And soon she would be even richer with the power and title of the Regent of the Black.

'People will bow at me. They will cowered in front of the magnificent of the Malfoy family.' She thought as she spied in the mirror for a glimpse of her beloved husband.

**WM: scheming**

Bellatrix Lestrange let out a full blown laugh straining her neck, opening her mouth wide, sending her wild hair flying around her face as the guards drug her out of the court room number 6.

This trial, like the previous one, had been a joke!

No one had breached the only important matter in the trial – not even their barrister despite her insistence he did so –: The danger of inter-breeding with sub-species such as Mud-blood. Those vermin were aberration, mistakes of nature that should be exterminated on sight. Their impure blood and magic should not be allowed to mingle with pure magical being like her. They were like flies festering on an open wound.

Could they not see that they were destroying their world, their magic?!

She remembered her once strong and independent sister: Andromeda Black. A woman she had once considered her greatest rival and, dare she concede, even to herself, admired; had been turned into a useless housewife burdened by a Hufflepuff daughter – A Hufflepuff?! In the Black family?! What an infamy! –, because one of those vermin had ensnared her, destroying her pride and stomping over the tradition that had bred her to this world!

How could they not see what she and her Lord had so clearly seen?!

She turned her wild gaze to her husband. The man who was so meek and docile in her and her Lord's presence, was fighting against the chains, clicking his jaw at the guards as if trying to behead them with his teeth.

She took a deep breath smelling her husband's rage and desperation filling the hallway as he was taken into an other room screaming and rambling.

She would make them see!

She stopped her struggle against her chains and let the guards drag her down the stairs waiting patiently as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Taking an other deep breath, she gently, slowly, passed her tongue over her upper lip like savouring an imaginary taste. From the cornered of her eyes, she saw a slight movement of the youngest guard's shoulders.

There! She struck!

As quick as the snake she was, she took a firm grasp on the chains, tearing it out of the guards grips, sending them flying around the strait. One of the guard fell, struck in the face by the heavy chains which cracked his head opened sending blood flying across Bella's face. The other was fumbling with his wand, trying to fire a curse at her as she laugh in delight tasting the blood on her lips.

Bellatrix smiled a cruel smile. They both knew he had lost his momentum!

As she ran forward, her heels clicking in a rapid tempo in the empty hallway. Using her chains as weapons, she struck the man in the chest. He tumbled back, losing his balanced. She jumped on him, taking a firm hold on one of her chain, she strangled him. She stared at him with her wide wild eyes, a small demented smile deforming her lips as she watched him struggling for his breath, his eyes widened with fear. She could feel him clawing desperately at her arms tearing the skin opened. But she barely felt any pain, as she watched, like under a spell, the life slowly escaping the wide mucky green eyes of the guard. She tightened her grip as her smile widen into a full blown grin. A sickening crack echoed in the hallway like music to her ears.

She laughed – a melodic high pitched laugh of delight – as she released her grip on the chain, watching in rapture as the body crumbled forward at her feet.

How she had missed the thrill of taking someone else life! Watching the complete horror deformed their traits as they understood they were going to die, the light slowly extinguished from their eyes knowing that the last image they would take to the underworld would be her terrifying expression of delight!

She closed her eyes, savouring the moment.

After a few seconds, she bent down taping the guard's corpse for the key of her chains. It took her a few second to discovered them hidden into a small pocket inside his robes.

Without her chains, she could feel her magic flowing freely back into her body. The feeling was exhilarating. She felt light headed. She touched her face feeling the magic simmering just under her skin and smiled.

Sweet sweet magic, she would protect it! Never again would she allowed it to be part from her.

She snatched the wand lying uselessly a few inches away from its owner's corpse. She twirled it between her fingers not really liking the feel of it. The wood was coarse in between her fingers and her magic overflowing the dragon heart string core, it felt like it would give out under her power any moment. She shuddered at the docile feel the wand emitted. It was nothing of her own impetuous, strong wand.

How she longed to have it back in her hands!

She had caught a glimpse of it at the trial. The prosecuting barrister even had the audacity to put his greasy pudgy fingers around the handle of her precious wand in order to demonstrate, like some cheap trick muggle magician, how, in his "humble" opinion, she had used her beloved wand to torture the Longbottom into insanity. Her face had turned into a rictus of disgusts as her eyes landed on the bunch of fools who dared tried to judge her, drinking every non-sense the ignoramus barristers was spurting.

Had none of them ever cast a Cruciatus curse in their life?!

That dimwitted idiot did not even know the correct wand movement!

Bella swallowed her anger. At least, those imbeciles had the presence of mind not to destroying her precious wand. It would have really pained her to have to replace her faithful twelve and three quarters walnut wand.

She wondered briefly why they had not broken it: she had been convicted of horrendous "crimes"! "Crimes" she had proudly claimed as her handy work. She had not even bothered to hide her wand trail!

Her masterpiece had been the Longbottom, of course. Their screams had been music to her ears, especially the wife sobbing as she made her watch her Rodolphus torture her husband into insanity. The high pitched screams, the flood of tears, the begging, all of it had been engraved in her memory and she had loved to replay those scenes in her minds over and over again in the dark corner of her cell. She had taunted the Azkaban guards detailing her cruellest actions to them, making sure not to miss the smallest details in her descriptions. And she knew that, just like her, they enjoyed it.

Shaking her head, she threw the wand in the air, deftly catching it in her right hand.

"Avada Kedavra!" She spoke in a joyful ton the phrase she loved so much.

She grinned happily seeing the green light striking the still unconscious second guard.

**WM: scheming**

Sirius let himself fall on his bed.

This was not happening. This was a dream! A bad dream! A nightmare!

"I have a son..." He said to himself eyes wide.

He could not really deny it, he realized as the boy had his curly hair, his jaw bones and even his voice sounded somewhat like his.

"I have a SON. I HAVE A SON!" He claimed.

Sirius jumped on his feet. How did THAT happened? And with Persephone?

"Do you need a rendition of the bee and honey talk, padfoot?" A voice sounding strangely like James' taunted him.

No, no, no. It could not be possible! It just could not be possible. It must have been a mistake. He only had one night with Persephone.

"Denial is not just a river in Egypt." The voice answered to his thought.

Sirius remembered when he had first heard the voice talking to him in Azkaban, he had really thought he had lost it. And, really, it had not mattered much. He had thought at the time that he would finally find release in madness.

But it had not been the case, the voice had kept him thriving. He could not die in this hell! He had to live, live for Harry, for James, for Lilly. He who was alive, could not let himself die such a pitiful death.

After a few days, the voice muttering to him became a full blown hallucination complete with two legs, two arms, hair and eyes... and a mouth... a fucking mouth that would not shut up.

"Leave me alone! I'm trying to make sense of things here, Prongs." Sirius answered looking up at James.

James was standing there not a few feet away from him leaning nonchalantly against the mahogany library, his hazel eye sparkling with mischief and a playful smirk hanging on his feature.

"I would have known if I had a son, Prongs!" Sirius argued.

"Really? I bet you don't even remember that night you had with Persephone. How many mini-Padfoots are running havoc around in the wide world?" James taunted letting out a small laugh at his friend's expense.

"Nope, he is not mine. I would have known Prongs. I would! And you know I took those infertility potion too." Sirius argued.

He remembered how he had convinced Lily to brew him a temporary infertility potion, just for his peace of mind. No, he had not wanted mini-padfoot – as Prongs so eloquently put it – and angry ex-lovers coming after his hide.

Lily had not wanted to at first, she thought it would be more "detrimental" to him, that he needed to learn responsibility and blahblahblah...

Sirius had not really paid attention to whatever non-sense the red-head had been sprouting. He had just gone on his knees and made his infamous puppy eyes. It had never failed him before and it had of course not failed him this time either.

"Then who? Regulus?" James interrupted Sirius' thought while pushing his body away from the library.

"Regulus?! He would have never done anything that could have bring shame to "the _great, noble_ house of Black". He certainly would not have had a child outside of wedlock." Sirius ranted. "He would not even had sex outside of wedlock. Poor bloke!"

"Your mother would not have taken in a child that would not have been a Black by blood. And you have to admit that this child have a lot of Black in him." James remarked.

"A Black by blood. A Black by blood." Sirius repeated, swigging back and forth in his chair. "The Black's blood... Black blood... She needed him to have Black blood in order to take him in..."

Sirius closed him eyes trying to remember something. There was something about the Black blood in the library... a book... a book on rituals...

Sirius suddenly rose up overthrowing his chair in the process. He marched to his mother's room determined to get the truth out of his mother's portray.

"What have you done exactly, old hag? Whose son did you steal?" He barked throwing the door opened.

He watched as his mother stiffened in her portrait, her jaw tightening and a hard look in her eyes.

So his mother wanting to play to the guessing game?

Then so be it! He was more than ready. He remembered her lesson in people-reading well enough and he knew her fairly well.

"Was it Remus?" Sirius questioned. "No, it could not have been Remus'. He is a lycanthrope … you would not have wanted the stain of his curse carrying in the family..."

Sirius looked at his mother expectantly.

There!

He knew that expression! His answer had been too close to the truth for his mother's comfort and her left eyebrow had caved down for a split of a second barely enough time for anyone catch. But Sirius was an expert at reading his mother and even after all those years, she still was the same.

He needed to keep his mind on his game.

Whose child could it be?

Sirius tried to remember whose family were expecting a child around the time his so called son had supposedly been born. The boy had dark hair so that ruled out the Weasley. He was rather thin that ruled out the Longbottom. His eyes were green... green like...

Sirius frowned. He knew someone with eyes just as green as those, like two brilliant emeralds sparkling with life...

"Lily!" He exclaimed.

Those were Lily's eyes!

He kept his eyes on his mother looking for the sign and as he had predicted to himself, she pinched her lips in a thin line as if she was trying to keep the answer from coming out.

"It's him! It's Harry!" Sirius danced with joy. "It's my Harry!"

"His name is not Harry!" Walburga yelled. "He is my Antarès! My perfect heir! You better remember that if you don't want them to take him away from you!"

Sirius stopped his dance looking wide eyed at his mother.

"Take him away from me? They can't do that. He is my Godson. Mine! I promised James I would take care of him…"

"Why would they left the "saviour of the Wizard's world", "the boy who lived" in the hands of an unstable ex-convict (1)?" Walburga sneered.

"No!" Sirius wailed."No, they won't take him. They can't! I won't let them!"

And Sirius began to plan. He needed to protect Harry. Harry... James' son... his Godson... and now his son by blood.

Sirius let out a full blown laughter.

He shared a son with James!

It was a "dream" come true.

**WM: scheming**

Getting out of the building had been far easier than she had first envisioned. Of course, she knew the ministry building like the back of her hand for her Lord and she had planned together the grand attack that would have signified the Dark victory over the weaklings of the ministry.

But one would have thought that after Rosier and Wilkes – among others – who were both part of the auror corps and thus had access to the security details and blue prints of every public building in magical Britain, were proven to be Death-eaters, the ministry would have reinforced its security. But it was not the case.

Thu, the only resistance she encountered was the one gaoler she knew would be rounding the corridors every half hour. It had taken her a second to overtake the man, and soon he was at her beck and call. She had sent the disgustingly weak-minded turnkey to free her husband. She trusted that Rodolphus could take care of the rest.

She just had to set up a little diversion. Walking down the basement of the ministry, she had opened every detention cells she passed by. These pathetic wine-bags and petty thieves the ministry kept in its gaol, had cowered at the sight of her splendour and, for a second, she had relinquished in the feeling of the fear she had inspired. One or two had even urinated themselves to her greatest satisfaction.

The only problem had been that most of those cowards would not move out of their cells and she had had to kick them out of their cells quite literally. But once out, they ran like the vermin they were, screaming, tripping as if their life depended on it – and, in some way, it did.

She had taken a moment to enjoy the chaos she had created before calmly walking down to a seemingly dead-end corridor. She had walked up to the wall feeling the magic running inside it. She had considered simply blasting it. It was not a retaining wall and thus destroying it would not damage the building too much. But while she would have enjoyed the destruction, she did not want to live a trail – like her Lord had planned.

Let them believe she disappeared in thin air!

She had let her hand slide on the brick feeling them one by one pinpointing the oddness in the pattern of the magic. She had taken a step back and tapped seemingly random bricks in a sequence. It had taken several attempts but she had managed to find the correct combination and the brick wall had opened into the sewer of the city of London.

And there she was, in the middle of a busy street, two streets down the ministry building, surrounded by those pitiful magic-less creatures who were walking around oblivious of her. She snarled as one of them bumped into her like she did not exist, turning around to glare at her like she was insignificant.

She gritted her teeth, her face morphing in an ugly grimace.

Now was not the time to kill those waste of space muggles who dared imagine themselves to be more than her who had been blessed with magic.

Now she needed to find a place to stay.

Narcissa's was out of question, she would end up killing that miserable traitor she had taken as husband. The snivelling conniving bastard who had denied her Lord.

Maybe she could make a visit to her dear sister Andromeda, she would certainly love to play with her mud-blood husband… For a moment, she lost herself to the daydream of what she would make her sister's husband do before killing him.

Or maybe, her eyes widened in realisation, maybe her aunt's… a crusader of pure-blood superiority like her would surely not refuse to help a like minded Black like her.

And in a crack, Bellatrix was gone.

**WM: scheming**

Harry was reading a book on the old ways and customs of Noble magical families. The book had appeared out of nowhere on his desk, opened on the chapter concerning inheritance dispute and tutelage.

It was not the first time something like that happened and it would certainly not be the last. The Black library had a wealth of knowledge ranking in the most obscure kinds of magic and he would not be surprised if one of those books contained the enchantment which had been waved on the library which would cater to the Black heirs and lords' specific needs.

Harry was no fool, he knew that his blond aunt would do anything in her power to get her hands on the Black fortune. The portrait of his esteemed many time great grand father Phineas Nigellus Black – who insisted that he be called by his whole name as to not be confused with his worthless son – had advised him on his independent study along with several of the Black ancestors.

They had helped him mould himself into the perfect heir of the Black: Antarès! He was cunning, ambitious, sneaky and ruthless.

Antarès Aymeric Black, heir of the Noble and Most Ancient house of Black, would certainly not be outwitted by a member of a secondary branch of the Black.

Already he had carefully penned a letter to the current Minister of Magic, one mister Cornelius Fudge, inviting him and his wife to witness Grand mother Walburga's passing. It was a great honour and a sign of respect to be invited to such event as it was exclusively for family and close friends. It was also a strong political move he was knew would appeal to the power-hungry man, especially after the blunder of Antarès' father's imprisonment.

It had worked, but he had gathered a lot of useful "information" about the minister – thanks to Grandfather Phineas Nigellus.

To his dismay, the current minister was an arrogant bumbling fool, easily corrupted, with low self-esteem, low self-confidence leading him to seek advices from richer and magically-stronger public figures.

Even if all those "qualities" were playing in his favour, Antarès had hoped that the magical community of Great Britain would be guided by someone more … competent.

It seemed that Britain was afraid to choose a wizard with strong opinions and a strong character for fear of the loss of a few unnecessary rights or worst the birth of a dictatorship – apparently they did not trust the multiple counter-measures which had been passed in order to avoid the rise to power of a despot. Thu they preferred the middle of the road, passive candidate who would maintain the status quo. They did not even realize that it was this very situation that had lead to the "first wizarding war" in the first place.

The door bell rang and Harry sighed, now was not the moment to contemplate the state of politic in Magical Britain, he had guests to welcome and a father to appease.

.

**WM**

**To Be Continued**

**WM**

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(1) I know that Sirius was never convicted of any crime. But Walburga does not know about that.

Review are greatly appreciated! :)


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